Joseph Opatoshu: A Yiddish Writer Between Europe and America

and KRUTIKOV
KOLLER, ESTRAIKH
At the turn of the twentieth century East European Jews legenda is a joint imprint
A Yiddish Writer between Europe and America

underwent a radical cultural transformation, which turned of the Modern Humanities
a tradit ional religious community into a modern nation, Research Association and
struggling to find its place in the world. An important figure Routledge. Titles range
in this ‘Jewish Renaissance’ was the American-Yiddish from medieval texts to
writer and activist Joseph Opatoshu (1886–1954). Born into contemporary cinema and
a Hassidic family, he spent his early childhood in a forest form a widely comparative
in Central Poland, was educated in Russia and studied view of the modern
engineering in France and America. In New York, where humanities.
he emigrated in 1907, he joined the revitalizing modernist
Joseph Opatoshu
group Di Yunge — The Young. His early novels painted
a vivid picture of social turmoil and inner psychological
conflict, using modernist devices of multiple voices and
STUDIES IN YIDDISH 11
mixed linguistic idioms. He acquired international fame by
his historical novels about the Polish uprising of 1863 and
Joseph Opatoshu
the expulsion of Jews from Regensburg in 1519. Though he
was translated into several languages, Yiddish writing always
fostered his ideas and ideals of Jewish identity.
Although he occupied a key position in the transnational

Jewish culture during his lifetime, Opatoshu has until
recently been neglected by scholars. This volume brings
A Yiddish Writer between
together literary specialists and historians working in Jewish
and Slavic Studies, who analyse Opatoshu’s quest for modern
Jewish identity from different perspectives.
Europe and America
Edited by Sabine Koller,
Gennady Estraikh and Mikhail Krutikov
ISBN 978-1-907975-60-8
cover illustration: Opatoshu at his desk in his New

York apartment at 150th Street and Riverside Drive,
9 781907 975608 1950. (Reproduced by kind permission of Dan Opatoshu.) Modern Humanities Research Association and Routledge
Opatoshu-9781907975608-cover.indd 1 9/7/13 17:00:26

Joseph Opatoshu
lEgEndA
eenda , founded in 1995 by the European Humanities Research Centre of
the University of Oxford, is now a joint imprint of the Modern Humanities
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Association.
The Modern Humanities Research Association ( ) encourages and promotes

advanced study and research in the field of the modern humanities, especially
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Editorial Board
Chairman
Professor Colin Davis, Royal Holloway, University of London
Professor Malcolm Cook, University of Exeter (French)

Professor Robin Fiddian, Wadham College, Oxford (Spanish)
Professor Anne Fuchs, University of Warwick (German)
Professor Paul Garner, University of Leeds (Spanish)
Professor Andrew Hadfield, University of Sussex (English)
Professor Marian Hobson Jeanneret,
Queen Mary University of London (French)
Professor Catriona Kelly, New College, Oxford (Russian)
Professor Martin McLaughlin, Magdalen College, Oxford (Italian)
Professor Martin Maiden, Trinity College, Oxford (Linguistics)
Professor Peter Matthews, St John’s College, Cambridge (Linguistics)
Dr Stephen Parkinson, Linacre College, Oxford (Portuguese)
Professor Suzanne Raitt, William and Mary College, Virginia (English)
Professor Ritchie Robertson, The Queen’s College, Oxford (German)
Professor David Shepherd, Keele University (Russian)
Professor Michael Sheringham, All Souls College, Oxford (French)
Professor Alison Sinclair, Clare College, Cambridge (Spanish)
Professor David Treece, King’s College London (Portuguese)
Managing Editor
Dr Graham Nelson
41 Wellington Square, Oxford ox1 2jf, UK
www.legendabooks.com
Studies in Yiddish
Legenda Studies in Yiddish embrace all aspects of Yiddish culture

and literature. The series regularly publishes the proceedings of the
International Mendel Friedman Conferences on Yiddish Studies, which
are convened every two years by the European Humanities Research
Centre of the University of Oxford.
published in this series

1. Yiddish in the Contemporary World
2. The Shtetl: Image and Reality
3. Yiddish and the Left
ed. by Gennady Estraikh and Mikhail Krutikov
4. The Jewish Pope: Myth, Diaspora and Yiddish Literature, by Joseph Sherman
5. The Yiddish Presence in European Literature: Inspiration and Interaction
ed. by Joseph Sherman and Ritchie Robertson
6. David Bergelson: From Modernism to Socialist Realism
ed. by Joseph Sherman and Gennady Estraikh
7. Yiddish in the Cold War, by Gennady Estraikh
8. Yiddish in Weimar Berlin: At the Crossroads of Diaspora Politics and Culture,
ed. by Gennady Estraikh and Mikhail Krutikov
9. A Captive of the Dawn: The Life and Work of Peretz Markish (1895-1952),
ed. by Joseph Sherman, Gennady Estraikh, Jordan Finkin, and David Shneer
10. Translating Sholem Aleichem: History, Politics and Art,
ed. by Gennady Estraikh, Jordan Finkin, Kerstin Hoge and Mikhail Krutikov
Joseph Opatoshu
Edited by Sabine Koller,

Gennady Estraikh and Mikhail Krutikov
Modern Humanities Research Association and Routledge

Studies in Yiddish 11
2013
First published 2013
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Contents
❖
Acknowledgements ix
1 Joseph Opatoshu’s Search for Yidishkayt
gennady estraikh, sabine koller, and mikhail krutikov 1
2 In New York Velder: Yosef/Joseph Opatoshu — Constructing a
Multinational, 20th Century, (very) Modern Yiddish Identity
dan opatoshu 18
3 Soviet Dreams of a Cultural Exile
gennady estraikh 35
4 Faint Praise: The Early Critical Reception of Joseph Opatoshu’s
In poylishe velder
ellen kellman 55
5 The Two Souls of Mordkhe: In poylishe velder
sabine koller 68
6 In poylishe velder and The Brothers Karamazov: A Comparative Study
harriet murav 86
7 ‘Such a Rag-Bag’: The Historical Novel as Spectacle, neo-Hasidic
Hagiography, and Pseudo-territory
jan schwarz 97
8 A tog in Regensburg and Elye Bokher: Opatoshu’s 1933 Vision of Early
Yiddish and Medieval Ashkenazi Culture, his Scholarly-Yiddishist
Models, and Means of Representation
roland gruschka 112
9 A tog in Regensburg: Scholarly Research and a Novel’s Outline
shlomo berger 127
10 The Flesh and the Spirit: Opatoshu’s novel Di tentserin (The Dancer)
avraham novershtern 137
11 Cityscapes of Yidishkayt: Opatoshu’s New York Trilogy
mikhail krutikov 160
12 Opatoshu’s Eroticism, American Obscenity
josh lambert 172
13 Yiddish Exceptionalism: Lynching, Race, and Racism in
Opatoshu’s Lintsheray
marc caplan 184
viii Contents
14 Mentshn un khayes (1938): Snapshots of Jewish life in America and Europe

astrid starck-adler 199
15 Literature for Children? The Case of Joseph Opatoshu
evita wiecki 215
16 Bibliography of Joseph Opatoshu
holger nath 231
Index 267
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
v
This collection of articles is an outcome of the international academic conference on

Joseph Opatoshu held in Regensburg on 22–24 April 2012. We are deeply grateful
to a number of institutions and individuals who made it possible to organize the
conference and publish this volume: the Slavic Department at the University of
Regensburg and the VolkswagenStiftung for their sponsorship and support; the
Regensburg Jewish Community for providing us with a wonderful location in
the center of that ancient city, which served as the setting of one of Opatoshu’s
most famous novels; Graham Nelson for his unwavering interest in the Studies in
Yiddish series, and his enthusiastic help with publishing this book; the copy editor
Nigel Hope for careful work with rather obscure material; and, especially, to Dan
Opatoshu for sharing his invaluable memories about his grandfather.
June 2013
Chapter 1
v
Joseph Opatoshu’s
Search for Yidishkayt
Gennady Estraikh, Sabine Koller, and Mikhail Krutikov
In 1922 the young American Yiddish writer Joseph Opatoshu was travelling back to
Europe on the RMS Aquitania. Looking at the stars above him made him remember
the past generations of his family, which directed his thought to the meaning of
yidishkayt, a concept that can be broadly described as Jewish world-view and way
of life:
The night was starry. Above me, the enormous heaven. The heaven and
the stars. Everywhere around me, water only. And you felt so small, and even
smaller — a speck in the middle of the sea. While I was looking at the heaven, a
star suddenly had fallen. Another star followed, crossing the sky, and a thought
had been born in my head. An intimate thought. Thirty-odd years ago my
father travelled as a third-class passenger across the same sea. Here — in the
middle of the sea — fifteen hundred miles from New York and fifteen hundred
miles from Paris, my father dropped a question which he had inherited from
his grandfather, his great-grandfather: What is the meaning of yidishkayt? This
thought continued to hover between the heaven and the water. I perceived
this thought as part of the ship, of the people on the ship, of the surrounding
element. I was the mouthpiece of my father, my grandfather, generations,
generations: What is the meaning of yidishkayt? Whose yidishkayt? Of the
Prophets? Of Rambam, Moses Hess or Yitzkhok Leybush Peretz?
And I am saying: yidishkayt is all of this and also something else. However,
this ‘something else’ is difficult to define.1
Opatoshu’s moment of meditation under the open sky in the middle of the Atlantic
Ocean brings to mind both the biblical story of creation and Immanuel Kant’s
famous dictum. Yet, in Opatoshu’s case, it is neither God’s spirit hovering between
heaven and earth nor the bond between the starry sky above his head and the
universal moral law in his heart, but rather Yitzkhok Leybush Peretz’s vision of
yidishkayt as the ‘golden chain’ that connects generations of the Jewish people. The
exact meaning of this concept escapes a precise definition, for it always contains
‘something else’, problematic issues that Opatoshu raises, but does not resolve, in
his writings.
Sixteen years later, Opatoshu made his last trip to pre-war Europe. Travelling
on train from France to Poland through Nazi Germany and witnessing a German
2 Gennady Estraikh, Sabine Koller, and Mikhail Krutikov
official demanding that German Jews give their seats to ‘Aryan’ passengers,
Opatoshu pondered the same question: ‘What power do we, contemporary Jews, have
to fight with the malice of the world? The power of religion? Of social justice? Of
secularity? Of yidishkayt?’2 (Despite the stark contrast between the transcendental
tranquillity of the 1922 transatlantic voyage and the crossing of Nazi Germany
on the eve of Kristallnacht, Opatoshu evokes the same set of names: the biblical
prophets and the medieval Jewish thinkers Maimonides and Yehuda Halevi, the
German Jewish philosopher Moses Hess, and, of course, Peretz, the great master of
Yiddish letters, who gave the aspiring young writer his somewhat ironic blessing:
‘when you write something else — bring it to me’.)3
The issue of yidishkayt in its manifold aspects — social, historical, religious,
psychological, ideological — remained central for Opatoshu’s writing during his
entire literary career, which spanned for more than four decades. He began as a
member of the Di Yunge (The Young Ones) literary group, which emerged in New
York around 1907 as a protest against the utilitarian approach to Yiddish literature
practised by Yiddish press and Jewish political movements. Opatoshu described
them as ‘a circle of young people who wanted to establish themselves in New York,
and they succeeded in a certain sense’. The young Yiddish writers, Opatoshu argues,
became ‘American’ even earlier than their English-language contemporaries: ‘it
was easier for us to shake off Warsaw, Odessa, Vilna, whereas the Americans had
to shake themselves free from a thousand-year old [English] literature’.4 Mostly
remembered today for its poets, Di Yunge also included a group of prose writers,
most prominent among whom were Joseph Opatoshu and Dovid Ignatov.
Although Opatoshu saw Di Yunge first of all as an American literary group,
his early works, such as the short story ‘Oyf yener zayt brik’ (On the Other Side
of the Bridge, 1910) and the novella A roman fun a ferd-ganev (Romance of a Horse
Thief, 1912) were set in the environment of central Poland, around his native shtetl
Mława, and made use of some autobiographical elements. Most of them appeared
in the almanacs Literatur (Literature) and Shriftn (Writings), edited by Ignatov.
Opatoshu’s heroes represented a new type of Jewish character: young, active, wilful,
and energetic, ready to break established social norms and cultural conventions, and
sometimes even the law. His shtetl stories are free of nostalgia and sentimentality.
In his first American story, ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ (Morris and His Son Phillip),
Opatoshu went even further in his representation of the low life, something that at
that time was only possible in Yiddish, which was not subject to the strict obscenity
regulations that controlled American literature, as Josh Lambert demonstrates in
his article. Opatoshu’s stories began to appear in the more mainstream publications
such as Dos naye land (The New Country, edited by Avrom Reisen) and Di tsukunft
(Future), and had a strong impact on Yiddish literature around the world, reaching
as far as Kiev where a group of young writers, inspired by the ‘overwhelming’
(iberrashendik) novelty of Opatoshu’s style and content, began ‘quietly to prepare
an attack against the fortified Yiddish literary Warsaw’.5 This initial enthusiastic
reception of Opatoshu’s work among the writers of the Kiev Group forged a strong
personal connection which, until 1948, linked Opatoshu with Soviet Yiddish
literature.
Joseph Opatoshu’s Search for Yidishkayt 3
In 1914 Opatoshu broke up with Ignatov and started a new publication, Di

naye heym (The New Home). As the American scholar Ruth Wisse explains, ‘[t]he
differences were too substantive to yield to diplomatic overtures, and Opatoshu’s
ambition too strong to be contained within Ignatoff ’s [sic] publication’.6 The
split within Di Yunge was ascribed by the critic Borekh Rivkin, who sided with
Opatoshu, to the difference between the ‘sober’ [nikhtere] adherents of naturalist
style who left with Opatoshu and the ‘intoxicated’ [shikere] neo-romantics and
symbolists who stayed with Ignatov.7 In the first (and only) issue of Di naye heym
Opatoshu published the novella Fun Nyu-yorker geto (From the New York Ghetto),
which was marked by a radically new approach to the American theme in Yiddish
literature. At the same time he made his first approach to the historical theme in
the novel Aleyn (Alone, 1919), which introduced the character of Mordkhe, who
was to become the central figure in the historical novels In poylishe velder (In Polish
Woods) and 1863. Together with Alone as the concluding part, these three novels
form Opatoshu’s ‘Polish’ trilogy, which covers the second half of the nineteenth and
the early twentieth centuries. In Polish Woods became Opatoshu’s first international
success: it was translated into several languages, including Hebrew, Polish, Russian,
Ukrainian, German and English, and turned into a film in Poland (1930). During
the celebration of the first twenty-five years of his literary work Opatoshu declared
this novel his most important work to date. Echoing Marx’s famous call to study
the ‘everyday Jew’ rather than ‘Sabbath Jew’, Opatoshu proclaimed that Jewish
historians had so far written the history of the ‘Jewish Sabbath’ and the ‘Jewish
festivals’, skipping the six working days of the week.8 The Jewish writer, Opatoshu
contended, begins his work where the Jewish historian has left his: ‘our artist must
do the “dirty” work of the historian’ by ‘kneading the clay and preparing the bricks’
for the construction of the edifice of the Jewish historical past.9
From the very beginning of his literary career, Opatoshu’s search for yidishkayt
was going on at two different levels, in the past and in the present. An indefatigable
traveller, he made several extensive visits to Western and Eastern Europe and
Palestine. In Poland and the Soviet Union he was actively engaged in cultural life
and even entertained the idea of settling permanently. Poland was the primary
market and audience for his works, and during 1928–36 Boris Kletskin, the
pre-eminent publisher of quality Yiddish literature, issued Opatoshu’s collected
works in fourteen volumes. Although Opatoshu never associated himself with
communism, he enjoyed generally warm relationships with the Soviet Yiddish
literary establishment, particularly with his close friend Peretz Markish, but he also
managed to maintain friendship with the veteran literary historian Israel Zinberg,
who for ideological reasons remained outside official Soviet literature.
Past and present are always closely intertwined in Opatoshu’s works. Past looms
large behind the present even in his stories from contemporary American life,
and his historical fiction, even when it is set in the ancient world or the Middle
Ages, is informed by contemporary concerns. Opatoshu, as was noted by critics,
was the writer of conf licts and contradictions: ‘he read the man at two levels
simultaneously, as the under-man (untermentsh) and the super-man (oybermentsh)’.10
This duality of vision, Borekh Rivkin argued, produced a duality of style. Rivkin
describes Opatoshu’s method as ‘subjective objectivism’, whereby the writer dissects

the ‘intimate secrets’ of his characters with his ‘sharp lancet’ to expose them with
‘cold objectivity’. Opatoshu rushes to tell his story; he writes in short, truncated
sentences in order to conquer the new space, to ‘narrate the space’ by turning time
into space, as Rivkin puts it.11 Thus time and space, past and present inevitably
clash, producing multiple conf licts in Opatoshu’s works: between the old and the
new generations, between Europe and America, between men and women, between
classes and races, humans and animals. Conf lict became the organizing principle
for editions of Opatoshu’s works. His collections are organized not chronologically
but thematically, always around an issue or a dichotomy such as: Klasnkamf (Class
Struggle), Lintsheray (Lynching), Mentshn un khayes (People and Animals).
As a prose writer, essayist, and brilliant orator, Joseph Opatoshu inexhaustibly
constructed and reconstructed this virtual space of yidishkayt between the Jewish
past and the Jewish present. The written or oral word was his favourite vehicle for
the affirmation of a free Jewish identity against the triple danger of assimilation
in America, Nazism and aggressive nationalism in Central Europe, and Soviet
Stalinism. In his eyes, the ‘productive human word’ that he held in high esteem was
a pre-eminent cultural achievement of the Jews. In a 1938 interview with Literarishe
bleter (Literary Pages), the leading Yiddish literary publication in interwar Poland,
Opatoshu praised the ‘word’ as an incarnation of the divine Logos. In contrast to the
Babylonian and Egyptian cultures, whose rites of idolatry gave birth to the worship
of architectural, sculptural, or pictorial objects, the word became the religious and
cultural basis of the Jewish people as the People of the Book, the am-haseyfer, and
in turn laid the foundation of Christianity and Islam.12
And while it was prohibited on Mount Sinai to make images and sculptures, the
word was proclaimed instead. Everybody heard the word between the thunder
and the lightning. The medium was here of a different kind, acoustic instead
of optic.13
Opatoshu might appear here as a logocentric iconoclast. And yet the opposite is
true. Along with the high ethical value of the Torah, Opatoshu also appreciated
its metaphorical power. The biblical language contained for him visual images
of extraordinary beauty, which greatly contributed to the f lourishing of Jewish
literature. At the same time, they link language and literature to art — against the
prohibition of images.
It is not true that yidishkayt is in its essence against art. The sages of the Talmud,
who had as one of their principles ‘thou shalt not make unto thyself a graven
image’ — those same sages included the Song of Songs, the Book of Job and
the Book of Ecclesiastes into the Bible and canonized these three purely artistic
works.14
Opatoshu acts here as a spokesman for art. Moreover, his poetics contains close
ties between word and image. The vibrancy of his poetics grows from his visual
metaphors and pictorial similes. The composition of his novels often follows the
aesthetic principles of visual art: portraits of the protagonists are intertwined with
panoramic views, and intimate interiors with broad landscapes. A masterful example
of this technique can be found in his last two-volume novel Der letster oyfshtand (The
Last Revolt, i (1948), ii (1955)) where the contrast between the portraits of Rabbi
Akiva and Bar Kochba, and the depictions of fight and war produces an impressive
historical painting of the Jewish rebellion against the Roman rule in the second
century ce. The same holds true for A tog in Regnsburg (A Day in Regensburg).
Opatoshu’s closeness to art has not been unnoticed by Yiddish critics. Thus, Yankev
Shatski compared Opatoshu’s short novel with the Dutch–Flemish Baroque school
of painting: the depictions of mass scenes reminded him of Jakob Jordaens, the
portraits had the f leshiness of Rubens, while his female characters were depicted
with the same ‘tamed idealization’ (getsoymter idealizatsye) as Rembrandt’s portraits.15
The opening of A Day in Regensburg evokes the famous etching by Albrecht
Altdorfer (c. 1448–1538), the founder of the South German Danube School of
painting which introduced landscape into the history of art. Altdorfer made this
engraving of the synagogue of Regensburg right before the Jews were expelled in
February 1519.16 Opatoshu might have come across this picture in the November–
December 1928 issue of the German Jewish journal Menorah, which also contained a
review of his novel In Polish Woods as well as a series of articles about the history of
Jews in Bavaria. Thus, the reception of his Polish novel in Germany may have been
the trace which led him from the Polish woods of the 1860s into the Regensburg
ghetto of 1519.17
Ber Borokhov, the founding father of Labour Zionism as well as a prominent
Yiddish philologist, pointed out to the cinematographic character of Opatoshu’s
style.18 Attracted by the new aesthetic possibilities of moving pictures, Opatoshu
reveals himself as a ‘picture writing’ author.
In real life, Opatoshu’s f lat and his studio were crowded with books and
paintings. While sitting at his desk overlooking Crotona Park in the Bronx and,
later, Riverside Park in Manhattan, New York, he was accompanied by two
etchings on his literary journey through Jewish space and time. The first one shows
a face with an arch smile similar to Rembrandt’s physiognomic studies. Yet, it is
Marc Chagall portraying himself in an act of grimacing. (The etching dates from
1924/25.) The second etching represents a Jew, who, while writing down something
in the secular Yiddish language, is leaning against a Torah scroll. This engraving
was made by Marc Chagall for a de luxe 1933 New York edition of Opatoshu’s short
novel A tog in Regensburg and the cycle Elye Bokher.19 The frontispiece contains a
personal dedication: ‘Mit frayndshaft far Opatoshu tsu zayn bukh. Marc Chagall’
(With friendship to Opatoshu for his book. Marc Chagall). In a 1948 drawing, Marc
Chagall portrays Opatoshu reading a book.20
Marc Chagall and Joseph Opatoshu probably met during the author’s sojourn
in Paris in 1925 where leading Yiddish literati gathered. In Paris, Peretz Markish,
Oyzer Varshavski, and Marc Chagall were working together on a new issue of
the modernist journal Khalyastre (Gang) that was originally published in Warsaw.
Markish and Varshavski helped Chagall in his work on Eygns (One’s Own), the
Yiddish version of Chagall’s autobiography My Life. A postcard to Opatoshu’s
wife Adela bears testimony of the cheerful meeting of Markish, Varshavski, and
Chagall with the guest Yiddish writer from America.21 This meeting was to be the
beginning of the friendship between the famous painter and the writer, a courted
and sometimes controversially discussed figure in the Yiddish and Yiddishist
world. It would last for about thirty years until Opatoshu passed away on the Yom
Kippur Eve of 1954. Opatoshu’s death deeply affected Chagall. The correspondence
between the artist and the author contains more than eighty letters. Chagall wrote
to Opatoshu — initially in Russian and later in Yiddish — from all over the world,
from Mexico, Jerusalem, Venice, Paris, or Saint-Paul-de-Vence near Nice where
the painter had settled in 1950. These letters are precious documents of both lives
and struggles for Jewish art, Yiddish literature and culture.
Marc Chagall and his family f led from Vichy France in 1941 to take refuge in
New York where they stayed until 1947. During these seven years, he and his family
spent a lot of time with the Opatoshus. In a way, Opatoshu saved Marc Chagall’s life
(and some of his paintings) by writing an affidavit that allowed the painter, his wife
Bella, and their daughter Ida to get an entry visa in the United States.22 In New
York, Opatoshu served as Bella’s literary ‘midwife’. He presided at a literary evening
at Chagall’s studio where Bella for the first time read fragments of her memoirs
to Yiddish authors. They were published under the title Brenendike likht (Burning
Lights) in 1945.23 Over the years, Opatoshu acted as a literary intermediary for
Chagall, an avid reader of Yiddish literature who never gave up his rootedness in
Yiddish language. For instance, Opatoshu sent Yehoyesh’s (Salomon Bloomgarden)
two-volume Yiddish translation of the Tanakh to Marc Chagall in 1928. This
masterpiece served as the basis for Chagall’s Bible etchings made between 1931 and
1939 and between 1952 and 1959.24 The words of thanks that Chagall addressed
to Opatoshu in a letter from 8 May 1928 anticipate the high esteem of the painter
towards the writer: ‘You are a good person, Opatoshe, and, moreover, a great
Yiddish author (something which rarely comes together)’.25
* * * * *
Opatoshu’s main literary genre was the short story. He produced hundreds of them
on a weekly basis during several decades for Der tog (Day), a left-leaning liberal
Yiddish daily with high literary standards. Each story depicts a situation laden
with tension and conf lict, which sometimes erupts into an open confrontation and
sometimes stays dormant, but never gets resolved to the end. Taken together, these
stories present a diverse and dynamic mosaic of American Jewish life during the
first half of the past century, which in many ways runs against the master narrative
of Jewish success in America. Like most American Yiddish writers, Opatoshu was
sceptical about the survival of yidishkayt in America, which paradoxically did not
affect his optimism about the future of Yiddish. A few months before his death he
delivered an address at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research in New York, in
which he proclaimed:
In the recent European holocaust, in which the Jews have suffered their
greatest ordeal in two millennia, Yiddish literature in America remained a
many-branched tree, shedding dead leaves and sprouting fresh ones. This
Jewish tragedy in Europe must be our rallying cry to continue the work of the
previous generations.26
In 1936 Opatoshu together with his friend H. Leivick started a new ambitious
literary almanac Zamlbikher (Collections) intended for the worldwide audience. The
editors’ declaration stated: ‘our literature is a literature of the entire world’, and their
aim was to
bring together writers who have a positive attitude to man and to the entire
environment; an attitude that expresses itself in love for the revolutionary
socialist position; and attitude to man and to his complex psychological exper
iences both as an individual and as a part of an ancient and tragic people.27
This emphasis on the openness to and engagement with the outside world set
Zamlbikher apart from another major Yiddish periodical of that time, the mod
ernist small magazine In zikh (Inside the Self ), which championed subjectivism and
introspectivism. Correspondingly, the dominant genres in Zamlbikher were narra
tive prose, long narrative poems and plays, as opposed to the short lyric poetry and
essay in In zikh. Yet given the atmosphere of the late 1930s, the editors were unable
to realize their vision of Yiddish as a full-scale world literature. They were unable to
obtain works of Soviet Yiddish writers, who by that time were practically isolated
from the rest of the world by the increasingly totalitarian regime. The vast majority
of contributions came from North America, although works of writers from
Poland, such as Arn Tsaytlin, Itzik Manger, Chaim Grade, and Avrom Sutzkever
also regularly appeared in Zamlbikher. The first four issues appeared annually, from
1936 to 1939, but the outbreak of the war disrupted in the project. The last four
issues appeared in 1943, 1945, 1948, and 1952 correspondingly.
What may appear strange for today’s reader is that there was no special Holocaust
issue, although the tragedy of the European Jewry did occupy a prominent place in
the post-war volumes. Opatoshu’s response to the catastrophe was formulated in the
essay ‘Survival — Not Downfall’ published as the conclusion of the sixth (1945) issue
dedicated to Peretz. Opatoshu begins by situating the Holocaust in the long chain
of the historical tragedies of the Jewish people. The Second World War brought
about the destruction of the Polish Jewry, the ‘backbone’ of the Jewish people and
its culture (487). But despite this tragedy, the Jewish people is not vanishing because
the secret of its longevity and perseverance is in the special form of its cultural
creativity, the psukim, aphorisms, and quotations from the Bible and other classical
Jewish sources. ‘Behind every posek, like a shell, is hidden Jewish worldview’, which
has guided the Jewish people through time and space for twenty-five centuries of
their existence as a ‘world-nation’ (492). Psukim is a literary device which produces
Jewish zikorn-kontinuitet (continuity of memory) by connecting the past with the
present and uniting Jews around the world. The current sense of abyss, a ‘break in
history’ as a result of the war catastrophe, stems, according to Opatoshu, from the
‘loss of the threads that connect yesterday and today, today and tomorrow’ (494).
Comparing undzer khurbn (the catastrophe of our time) with the destruction of
the Second Temple, Opatoshu poses a rhetorical question: what happened with
Jewish culture and religion after that destruction? Now, as two thousand years ago,
Jews should recreate their culture by reappropriating and reinterpreting the old
psukim, by ‘drawing from our own reservoirs’ left by the ancestors who had an acute
sense of ‘world-historical responsibility’ (494). Throughout their long history, Jews
have had only one weapon, ‘the productive human word’ (495). Other contributors
also were looking forward to a rapid restoration and regeneration of Jewish culture
in the wake of the catastrophe. In an essay titled ‘Jew and World — World and Jew’,
the prominent poet and critic Melekh Ravitsh argued:
we can regenerate, and regenerate fast, already in the first summer. Because the
murder of six million is not an expression of our fatigue, on the contrary — the
catastrophe befell upon us in a moment of revival, and therefore our will for
regeneration and revival is so strong.28
Responding in this spirit to the catastrophic historic events happening before their
eyes, the editors turned to documenting the cultural history of their own time.
Literary history and criticism come to occupy more space in the later issues of
Zamlbikher, while Opatoshu, Leivick, and Shmuel Niger began to publish letters by
Yiddish writers from their personal archives.
There are no clear signs that communist ideology occupied any important place
in Opatoshu’s outlook in the first years after the Bolshevik revolution. Significantly,
he did not join those colleagues, including his friends (most notably, H. Leivick),
who became staff writers of the communist daily Frayhayt (Freedom), established
in New York in 1922. Apparently, the Yiddishist, nationalist, and liberal platform
of Der tog was more to his liking. At the same time, Eastern Europe in general and
Russia in particular lured him as the place of seemingly unprecedented possibilities
for Yiddish culture. He certainly found very attractive the ideology and practice of
Kultur-Lige (Culture League), established in Kiev in 1918 with an aim to build a
non-partisan, transnational framework for developing sophisticated Yiddish culture
as the spiritual core for the modern Jewish nation in the making. In many places of the
world, Yiddish activists made attempts to replicate the experience of the Kiev league.
In an ideal and in fact utopian Kultur-Lige environment, Yiddish writers might
have a chance to realize their dream: to write highbrow literature and find for it
appreciative mass readers. In fact, it was easier to achieve the first part of this dream,
whereas readers of deep fiction and poetry were rare and few in between; hence the
appeal of the Kultur-Lige’s programme of raising the educational and, generally,
cultural level of the masses. However, in the United States, where the American
Dream and its associated Americanization drive among immigrants weakened
Jewish national aspirations, Yiddish educational projects faced serious problems and
could not be realized on a large scale. In Europe, especially in the Soviet Union,
with its state-run educational system, theatres, and publishing houses, the situation
still seemed promising. American Yiddish literati became even more excited about
the Soviet Union when it started developing, together with foreign (predominantly
American) sponsors, Jewish territorial projects. Significantly, it was not an
exclusively Comintern campaign, because the definitely non-communist American
Joint Jewish Distribution Committee and the World ORT were the main players
in the multi-million-dollar aid operations. The Crimean Jewish colonies were
particularly popular, attracting numerous foreign visitors. Opatoshu’s colleague at
Der tog, the Yiddish playwright and travel writer Peretz Hirschbein, spent almost a
year in the Crimea and reported enthusiastically about the achievements of Jewish
shtetl-dwellers-turned-farmers.
Opatoshu visited the Soviet Union twice, in 1928 and 1934. Like other foreign
visitors, he was welcomed by fellow writers, travelled to various places and had
meetings with Yiddish readers. Soviet publishing houses produced his books in
Yiddish, Russian, and Ukrainian, and paid him hefty royalties. Unlike many other
western guests, he had in Moscow a very close and inf luential friend — Peretz
Markish, who settled in the Soviet Union in 1926, after a five-year-long stint
abroad, mainly in Warsaw, where they had first met. This friendship certainly
played an important role in reinforcing Opatoshu’s links with Moscow.
During his second sojourn, Opatoshu participated in the First Congress of
Soviet Writers, which institutionalized the Writers’ Union as an environment for
producing socialist realist works. In the beginning of August 1934, on the eve of
the congress, a separate Yiddish writers’ conference was organized in Moscow. In
Moscow, Kiev, and Minsk, Yiddish writers’ associations appeared as constituents
of the new centralized milieu. Such Yiddish writers as Peretz Markish, David
Bergelson, and Leyb Kvitko were welcomed as equals into the elite circles of the
union. To all appearances, the idea of a state-sponsored organization for literary
activities appealed to Opatoshu. He certainly saw literature as a field for collective
platforms, manifestos, and endeavours. A Yiddish writers’ collective as part of a
broader, multi-ethnic, and multilingual union was a particularly attractive setting
for creative work aimed at building a just, egalitarian, progressive society.
The years 1937 and 1938 brought puzzling and even terrifying developments in
the Soviet Union. Mass repressions could be somehow rationalized by a sympathetic
observer. Finally, the socialist state was surrounded by enemies; fascism was on the
rise. Presumably, enemies were active also among Soviet citizens. Significantly,
Opatoshu’s close friends had not been arrested. Moreover, Markish was elected
to head the Moscow association of Yiddish writers. At the same time, a really
devastating piece of news came from Moscow: the entire system of Yiddish
educational institutions in the European part of the country, including even the
Crimean colonies, was phased out in 1938. Jewish children could no longer be
educated to read works by Yiddish writers in the original. Soviet Jews began to
be treated as some sort of Birobidzhan ‘diaspora’. It clearly meant the end of the
dream about the ‘Yiddishland’ in the Soviet Union. In August 1939, the Molotov–
Ribbentrop Pact became the last straw in Opatoshu’s disillusionment with the
Soviet Union.
Yet, the real, catastrophic disillusionment overwhelmed Opatoshu and his circle
of friends a decade later, when the entire system of Yiddish culture had been ruined
in the Soviet Union. The eighth and final volume of Zamlbikher, which came out
in 1952 as a memorial to Soviet Yiddish writers, opens with a memento of happy
times: a photo taken on 5 August 1934, during the conference of Yiddish writers in
Moscow. Opatoshu is the only foreign guest among the three dozen leading Soviet
poets, prose writers, and critics. In 1952, Leivick and Opatoshu did not know which
Soviet writers were alive and, generally, what were the reasons and circumstances
that led to silencing Yiddish in the Soviet Union. They knew, however, that ‘Yiddish
does not exist there as a live creative language any more; Yiddish literature does
not exist there any more; Yiddish theatre, Yiddish newspaper, Yiddish children’s
school of any kind does not exist there any more’. They also had no illusions that
the repression had been done by the same hand which the silenced writers used
to ‘praise devotedly and caress’ (5). Each Soviet literary figure represented in the
volume was ‘assigned’ a foreign interpreter who wrote an introductory essay. The
last volume of Zamlbikher remains one of the most impressive, comprehensive, and
sensitive commemorations of Soviet Yiddish. It contains a wealth of first-hand
documents, such as letters and memoirs, as well as perceptive and nuanced critical
appreciations of individual authors. It was a painful and devastating end of a Yiddish
Utopia which filled a virtual void between the Jewish past and the Jewish future.
* * * * *
Opatoshu’s tireless literary efforts and his lifelong public commitment to the
Yiddish language, literature, and culture have an endearing private counterpart.
Although numerous autobiographical traces are scattered across his short stories and
novels, his personality comes best through in the short memoir of his son, David,
a prominent American theatre, film, and television actor and screenwriter.29 In
a preface to the 1968 English translation of A Day in Regensburg and other short
stories, he recalled:
The laughing boy grabs the father’s pointed chin and, shaking lustily, yells:
‘Papa, tell me another story, a terrible, scary story!’
The father seats himself upon a studio couch, enfolds the boy in warm,
protective arms and tells of grandpas and of grandmas, tells of forests and of
towns, of Uncle Yukeff ’s fights with Cossacks, horses, bears and wolves and
imps. Boy in arms gulps and swallows thirstily the stories, and within the curly
head, grandpas, grandmas and impish bears, spin and wave along with towns
and forests, horses, uncles and Cossacks. [...]
Suddenly the father stops, puts four fingers to his lips and blows a blast, a
Shofar peal! A roar of joyous laughter from the two, as once again the father
lifts his son up high and, dancing wildly, gallops round the room.
Laughter from the little boy. Laughter from the young-yeared father.
Laughter from the rays of sun as they dance among the black-penned letters,
dance between the words of Yiddish, as they sing their song of life. (viii–ix)
Years later, Joseph Opatoshu’s gift for storytelling was passed onto his grandson
Dan. This collection opens with Dan Opatoshu’s ‘anecdotal biography and
character description’ of his grandfather Yosef and his grandmother Adela. Dan
Opatoshu was seven and a half years old when his grandfather died. Turning back
to his childhood years, he offers a lively description of the time he spent with his
grandfather and his Yiddish literati friends. This account provides unique private
insights into Opatoshu’s life, and his relationship with Yiddish literary world.
An important part of Opatoshu’s broad cultural network was Soviet Yiddish
literature. In ‘Soviet Dreams of a Cultural Exile’ Gennady Estraikh outlines
Opatoshu’s Soviet connections, arguing that he was drawn to Soviet Yiddish
culture by a shared ideal of a transnational autonomous Yiddish space, which
was rooted in the ideology and aesthetics of Kultur-Lige, a Kiev-based Yiddish
secularist and modernist cultural association. Inspired by his travels to Europe and
the Soviet Union during the 1920s and 1930s, Opatoshu came to believe that the
Soviet Union was a suitable place for realizing the Yiddishist utopia. Yet, Estraikh
contends, despite ‘his sympathy to Soviet forms of Jewish life, Opatoshu was not a
follower of communism’, but rather a ‘political bystander’. Neither the enthusiasm
of Opatoshu’s good friend Peretz Markish about the future of Yiddish in the Soviet
Union nor the experiment with the Jewish autonomous district Birobidzhan
was convincing enough to make Opatoshu move to the Soviet Union, although
sometimes he contemplated such an idea. It was Stalin’s purges of the 1930s, the
turf battles among Soviet Yiddish literati, the pressure of Sovietization on Yiddish
culture, and eventually the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact that disappointed Opatoshu’s
hopes for the future of Yiddish in the Soviet Union.
Four chapters discuss Opatoshu’s most acclaimed work In Polish Woods (1921).
By examining the history of the novel’s publication and its critical reception in
‘Faint Praise: The Early Critical Reception of Opatoshu’s Historical Novel In
poylishe velder’, Ellen Kellman argues for a redefinition of the place of the novel in
the modern Yiddish canon. First published in the United States in 1921, the novel
became an instant success in Poland after its publication by Kultur-Lige a year
later. It served well the ambitious goal of that organization to create a transnational
Yiddish culture, and it was precisely Opatoshu’s geographic distance from the
European upheavals that made his novel a significant part in that project. While
the majority of critics praised the novel as a monumental achievement in Yiddish
literature and appreciated the breath and depth of Opatoshu’s research, his grasp
of historical reality, and his artistic ability to portray it vividly, some also pointed
out its compositional and conceptual shortcomings, and especially the character
vagueness of its hero, Mordkhe. As Kellman concludes, the critical discourse
generated by the publication of the novel on both sides of the Atlantic was a
response to the specific historical moment in the aftermath of the First World War
and the Russian revolution, at which ‘many disparate impulses were driving writers
of Yiddish literature and its critics’. The publication of the novel generated a great
deal of excitement and enthusiasm, which gradually gave way to the realization that
it failed to live up to its promise.
The Polish and Jewish literary and historical contexts of the novel are examined
comparatively by Sabine Koller in ‘The Two Souls of Mordkhe: In poylishe velder’.
Koller traces parallels between Opatoshu’s representation of the Polish national
struggle against the Russian Empire in the aftermath of the January Uprising of
1863 and various Polish literary and historical sources, such as the poetry of Adam
Mickiewicz and Cyprian Norwid, the historical fiction of Stefan Żeromski, and
the mystical writings of Andrzej Towiański. She establishes close intertextual
connections between Opatoshu’s novel and Polish literature at several levels, from
metaphorical imagery to the political and religious discourses of messianism,
redemption, and liberation. Koller argues that in attempting to synthesize and
appropriate a wide variety of cultural inf luences and ideas coming from Polish
and Russian culture, Opatoshu follows a model established by Yitzkhok Leybush
Peretz for creating a modern Yiddish culture that combines worldliness with Jewish
spirituality.
In ‘In poylishe velder and The Brothers Karamazov: A Comparative Study’, Harriet
Murav explores the Russian and the Jewish literary contexts of Opatoshu’s novel. By
reading the novel in the light of the early twentieth-century ‘salvage ethnography’ as
practiced by S. An-sky and his Russian Jewish colleagues, Murav discovers the same
transformative impulse of aestheticization of Judaism in the novel. Comparing In
Polish Woods to The Brothers Karamazov, she highlights parallels between two central
spiritual figures, Opatoshu’s Reb Mendele of Kotsk and Dostoevsky’s elder Zosima.
Both the Hasidic rebbe and the Christian monk challenge the accepted orthodoxies
of their respective religions from within, and both ostensibly fail. Like Dostoevsky,
Opatoshu addresses the problematic issue of fusion between messianism and
nationalism. But in contrast to catastrophic and apocalyptic messianic visions of the
first part of the twentieth century, which preoccupied the German Jewish thinkers
Martin Buber, Gershom Scholem, Walter Benjamin, or the Russian Yiddish writer
Der Nister, Opatoshu opts for an optimistic version of salvation — f lanked by the
universal visions of messianism of the Jewish thinker Moses Hess and the Christian
writer Fyodor Dostoevsky. Murav concludes: ‘[f ]or both Dostoevsky and Opatoshu
crisis and catastrophe were not only not necessary to human salvation, but were
antithetical to it’. Yet, as she demonstrates, the absence of a catastrophic rupture
in history comes at a price, producing in a ‘strangely static quality’ of Opatoshu’s
optimistic narrative.
Jan Schwarz’s chapter, ‘“Such a Rag-Bag”: The Historical Novel as Spectacle,
Neo-Hasidic Hagiography, and Pseudo-Territory’, focuses on the challenge of
writing a Yiddish historical novel as a balancing act of ‘a static, mythic and religiously
based Jewish universe with the developmental scheme of its protagonist and the
open structure of the genre’. Referring to Georg Lukács’s theory of the novel,
Schwarz demonstrates how Opatoshu’s In Polish Woods responded to the dislocation
and destruction of Eastern European Jewish life caused by the First World War.
Following the hero’s trajectory, Opatoshu investigates the disintegration of the
traditional Jewish world, as exemplified in the decay of Reb Mendele’s Hasidic
court, and the problematic relationship between Poles and Jews. The traditional
images of apocalyptic messianism are neutralized by Opatoshu though the creation
of an imaginary territory, (kemoy-teritorye, the term coined by Borekh Rivkin) of the
Yiddish language, literature, and culture. By combining various different genres,
such novel and drama, as well as different literary traditions, Opatoshu created
a polyphonic and multilayered narrative which brought together voices from
different periods, from the kabbalistic Book of Zohar to Yitskhok Leybush Peretz.
Thus, Opatoshu’s modernist historical novel laid the ground for further artistic
innovations within the genre of Yiddish prose and, at the same time, opened up a
rich depository of collective memory for the Jewish readership that was ‘estranged
from its own textual history’.
The two following chapters take us back to the Old Ashkenaz at the critical
moment of the expulsion of the Jews from Regensburg in 1519. Opatoshu’s short
historical novel A tog in Regensburg resulted from his active interest in the early
Yiddish language and literature, which became popular during the interwar period
among Yiddishist intellectuals searching for the roots of modern secular Yiddish
culture. Both Roland Gruschka’s and Shlomo Berger’s starting point is Max Erik’s
Spielmann theory about wandering Yiddish bards in Old Ashkenaz, which was
of great inf luence at its time but was disproved later by the prominent scholar
Chone Shmeruk. Both chapters stress the secularism, corporality, eroticism, and,
in Roland Gruschka’s case, the vitalism which the Jewish shpilman character brings
into the novel.
In ‘A tog in Regensburg and Elye Bokher: Opatoshu’s 1933 Vision of Early Yiddish
and Medieval Ashkenazi Culture, his Scholarly-Yiddishist Models and Means
of Representation’, Roland Gruschka examines the fictionalized figure of the
Ashkenazi shpilman through Opatoshu’s recreation of the lyrics, and performance
of the Old Yiddish songs and ballads, the ways of crossing of social borders and
navigating the internal Jewish conf licts between the religious and the mundane.
Along with examining the Yiddish literary sources, such as the memoirs of Glikl
of Hameln, Gruschka highlights the political dimension of the novel which was
published in New York at the moment of Hitler’s coming to power in Germany.
Thus A tog in Regensburg can be interpreted as both a historical allegory of the
Jewish fate in the twentieth century, and a celebration of the Jews’ ‘unique role
as a kultur-treger, a cultural ferment for the Gentile civilizations’. By creatively
combining universal and particular aspects of Jewish culture and resisting the
danger of assimilation and the threat of expulsion, the Old Ahkenazi Yiddish
shpilman prefigures a type of modern Yiddishist identity that fits Opatoshu’s own
vision of his mission as a Yiddish writer.
In ‘A tog in Regensburg: Scholarly Research and a Novel’s Outline’ Shlomo Berger
argues that Erik’s literary-historical representation of the shpilman figure as a dancing
and singing ‘outlaw’ of the old times served as the foundation for Opatoshu’s literary
project of depicting the sixteenth-century Ashkenazi life. According to Berger, one
of Opatoshu’s aims was to point to the ‘fragility of Jewish diasporic life in general’,
regardless of time and space. In A tog in Regensburg, Opatoshu subversively played
with historical truth by anachronistically combining various times and settings, as
he also did in In Polish woods. Thus, Opatoshu creatively complemented the classical
Jewish historiography of Heinrich Graetz or Simon Dubnov. In a postmodern
manner, the novelist presented an entertaining ‘alternative history’ where low and
high culture, Sabbath and everyday Jewish life merge.
Four further chapters deal with Opatoshu’s writings about America. ‘The Flesh
and the Spirit: Opatoshu’s novel Di tentserin (The Dancer)’ by Avraham Novershtern
traces the publication and reception history of Opatoshu’s ‘most significant novel
concerning Jewish life in America’ aimed at a broad worldwide audience. Serialized
originally in the New York Yiddish daily Der tog in 1926, the novel appeared in
book form in the Soviet Union (as Arum grend-strit, Around Grand Street, 1929) and
Poland (1930), where it aroused varied reactions which ref lected the ideological and
aesthetic diversity of Yiddish criticism of the time. By comparing Di tentserin to the
earlier and more successful novel In Polish Woods, Novershtern identifies significant
points of difference in the writer’s vision of the old and the new world. He classifies
the novel as a ‘piece of literary conservatism’, in which ‘the cosmopolitan nature of
New York has no role’. Novershtern argues that Opatoshu ‘creates a tension between
the realistic depiction of the social surroundings and the inherent romanticism of
the characters’ strivings’, which is a characteristic feature of the modern Yiddish

novel. But despite the ‘dazzling human gallery and thematic richness’, Di tentserin
(in contrast to In Polish Woods) ultimately fails in presenting genuinely deep and
complex characters and fusing in its text the heterogeneous variety of its thematic
elements. The value of the novel, Novershtern concludes, is in its remaining a
‘faithful representation of the real-life experiences that serve as its background’.
Mikhail Krutikov’s chapter, ‘Cityscapes of Yidishkayt: Opatoshu’s New York
Trilogy’, distinguishes four types of urban space in Opatoshu’s New York settings:
space as part of the demarcated Jewish territory, such as religious institutions
and hangouts; family space, most notably apartments and private homes; social
space where interaction between different populations groups, Jewish and non-
Jewish, takes place; space of leisure and potential erotic encounter. In Opatoshu’s
representation, the urban space functions as an arena for confrontations between
genders, generations, social, ethnic, and religious groups. These confrontations
shape a new, urban American type of yidishkayt, whose sustainability is constantly
tested on the ground. In his comparative analysis of Opatoshu’s novella Fun Nyu-
yorker geto (From the New York Ghetto, 1914), and the novels Hibru (Hebrew, 1920)
and Di tentserin, Krutikov detects the writer’s increasing scepticism regarding any
possibility of future development of yidishkayt in America outside the confines of
the traditional Jewish geto of the Lower East Side, whereas the price of stability is
parochialism and stagnation.
In ‘Opatoshu’s Eroticism, American Obscenity’ Josh Lambert turns his attention
to the intriguing literary and personal connections between Opatoshu and the
bohemian culture of Greenwich Village of the 1910s and 1920s. As Lambert argues,
‘Yiddish writers in America could treat sex more frankly than their counterparts
writing in English’, who were subject to a strict control by the New York Society
for the Suppression of Vice. In this context, Yiddish modernist writing in general
and Opatoshu’s works in particular played a significant but neglected part in the
development of American modernist culture. The sexual motifs of illicit behaviour
and betrayal were central for Opatoshu’s early prose situated both in Poland and
in America, and, as Lambert suggests, sexuality ‘seems to have been a significant
factor in what made his work attractive to American literary figures who were
working primarily with English, but also keeping their eyes on developments in
contemporary Yiddish literary culture’, such as the translator Isaac Goldberg and
Joseph Kling, the editor of the short-lived bohemian magazine The Pagan, who
makes a cameo appearance in Opatoshu’s novel Hibru. However, the translations
of Opatoshu’s ‘disturbing, sexually frank’ stories which appeared in East & West
and The Pagan have never been reprinted, perhaps out of fear of offending the
conservative sensibilities of the American public.
Marc Caplan’s ‘Lynching, Race, and Racism in Joseph Opatoshu’s Lintsheray’
examines the nexus between two thematic concerns which preoccupied Opatoshu
during his entire writing career: sex and race, both of which were often related in
his fiction to violence. By offering a close reading of Opatoshu’s short story Lincheray
(Lynching), Marc Caplan addresses the challenge of translating the problem of
American racism into a ‘recognizable Yiddish idiom’. By closely reading Opatoshu’s
text with an eye on the dehumanizing stereotypes employed for the representation
of African Americans, he exposes the racial bias and clichés which Yiddish literature
shared with the American discourse of that time, arguing at the same time that
the ‘problems Opatoshu encounters when imagining a Black character go beyond
the linguistic challenges of rendering an Anglophone consciousness in Yiddish’
and return us to the question of history and tradition. Caplan situates Opatoshu’s
writing in the context of what he calls ‘critical Americanization’, whereby Yiddish
functions as both an instrument of cultural mediation and a means of maintaining
the ethnic, ethical, and aesthetic distinctiveness of Jews in America:
[u]nlike his modernist contemporaries in the Harlem Renaissance, who devote
so little attention to lynching because the subject cannot be depicted artistically,
Opatoshu, who lacks their aesthetic aims, is willing to attempt this depiction,
and the result maintains a historical, sociological value far beyond the polemical
purpose it served for its original readership.
Astrid Starck-Adler’s ‘Mentshn un khayes (1938): Snapshots of Jewish life in America
and Europe’ analyses the collection of stories set in Opatoshu’s original literary
landscape, located at the crossroads between America and Europe, and between
the underworld and orderly life. Many of his stories are populated by two ‘species’,
mentshn un khayes, or men and animals. Starck-Adler comes to the conclusion
that, thanks to Opatoshu’s perfect mastery of topics and style, he had succeeded
in creating vivid characters acting in both continents. By combining real life and
fiction, realism and surrealism, he often puzzled his readers, inviting them to make
their own interpretations. He investigated the nature of Jewish identity, shaped
between tradition and modernity, between the past and the future of the nation.
In ‘Literature for Children? The Case of Joseph Opatoshu’, Evita Wiecki analyses
Opatoshu’s writings that appeared in textbooks and other educational material
published in various countries. Although Opatoshu’s working experience included
a stint at a Hebrew school, he was not a children’s writer. His stories, written for
adult readers, would not be adapted linguistically and otherwise to the needs of
the different age groups. Nonetheless, Yiddish educators would turn to Opatoshu’s
stories because they, firstly, represented a rich source of knowledge about Jewish life
in Eastern Europe and America; and, secondly, they were ideologically compatible
with the ideals of textbooks’ compilers and publishers. In addition, Opatoshu
was regarded as one of the most important Yiddish writers and as such had to be
introduced to the younger generation.
The ‘Bibliography of Joseph Opatoshu’, compiled by Holger Nath, is partly based
on the four bibliographies of Opatoshu’s works published between 1937 and 1965.
Internet resources — like Worldcat.org, the Index to Yiddish Periodicals (‘Indeks
tsu der yidisher peryodik’, which lists works on and by Opatoshu up until 1955), the
index to the Historical Jewish press, the catalogues of YIVO, the Harvard Libraries,
and the New York Public Library — helped update the bibliographical information.
Significantly, Holger Nath’s work contains links to all those texts that are available
online to date.
This volume represents the first modest attempt to appreciate the rich literary
legacy of Joseph Opatoshu from a contemporary scholarly perspective. It is far from
comprehensive, and does not touch on many important texts and themes — such
as Opatoshu’s last historical novels about Rabbi Akiva, his travel writings, and
hundreds of short stories, which over decades appeared every week in the New
York Yiddish daily Der tog; even the bibliography of his works is far from complete.
It is our hope that this collection will generate new interest in this fascinating
literary figure and inspire new research into his work.
Notes to Chapter 1
1. Yoysef Opatoshu, ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’ [1938], in Yidish un yidishkayt: Eseyen (Toronto: Gershon
Pomerantz, 1949), pp. 39–40.
2. Yoysef Opatoshu, Ven Poyln iz gefaln (New York: CYCO, 1943), p. 7.
3. Nakhmen Mayzel, Yoysef Opatoshu: zayn lebn un shafn (Warsaw: Literarishe bleter, 1937), p. 28.
4. Quoted ibid., p. 36.
5. Ibid., p. 41.
6. Ruth R. Wisse, A Little Love in Big Manhattan: Two Yiddish Poets (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1988), p. 52.
7. Nakhmen Mayzil, Tsurikblikn un perspektivn (Tel Aviv: Y. L. Peretz-farlag, 1962), p. 318.
8. Karl Marx, ‘Zur Judenfrage’, in Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Werke, i (Berlin, GDR: Karl
Dietz, 1976), pp. 347–77 (p. 372).
9. Quoted in Mayzel, Yoysef Opatoshu, p. 65.
10. Borekh Rivkin, Yoysef Opatoshus gang (Toronto: Gershon Pomerantz, 1948), p. 21.
11. Ibid., pp. 21–22.
12. [Dovid Roykhel], ‘A geshprekh mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, Literarishe bleter, 15 (21 October 1938),
640–42 (p. 641). Opatoshu gives a similar evaluation in his 1938 essay ‘Vos iz yidishkayt’, pp.
35–43.
13. [Dovid Roykhel], ‘A geshprekh mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, p. 641. For a discussion of that item see
Sabine Koller, ‘Geborgen in der Schrift: Joseph Opatoshu, Marc Chagall und die Erzählung
Ein Tag in Regensburg’, in Ein Tag im jüdischen Regensburg mit Joseph Opatoshu und Marc Chagall,
ed. by Sabine Koller (Passau: Karl Stutz, 2009), pp. 13–28 (p. 26) and Marc Chagall: Grenzgänge
zwischen Literatur und Malerei (Cologne: Böhlau, 2012), pp. 327–28.
14. Opatoshu, ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’, p. 41.
15. Yankev Shatski, ‘ “A tog in Regensburg un Elye Bokher” fun Y. Opatoshu’, Di tsukunft, August
1933, pp. 493–96 (pp. 494–95).
16. It contains an anti-Jewish inscription which might indicate that the artist was asked to make this
engraving by the Civil Council and the clergy.
17. See Menorah: Illustrierte Monatsschrift für die jüdische Familie, 11/12 (1928), 689 and 722–23. For an
online version see <http://www.compactmemory.de/> [accessed 25 January 2013].
18. Ber Borokhov, ‘Y. Opatoshu’, in Shprakh-forshung un literatur-geshikhte, ed. by Nakhmen Mayzil
(Tel Aviv: Farlag Y. L. Perets, 1966), p. 352. Maks Erik uses artistic categories to characterize
Opatoshu’s writings.
19. The deluxe edition was published in 100 copies, see Benjamin Harshav, Marc Chagall and his
Times: A Documentary Narrative (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), p. 981.
20. The drawing is now in Dan Opatoshu’s possession.
21. See Harshav, Marc Chagall and his Times, pp. 333–34.
22. Ibid., p. 486.
23. Yitskhok Rontsh, Di velt fun Mark Shagal (Los Angeles: YIKUF, 1967), pp. 31–35.
24. For an analysis of Chagall’s illustrations of the Tanakh based on Yehoyesh’s translation see
Koller, Marc Chagall, pp. 301–16.
25. Joseph Opatoshu’s Papers, YIVO Archive, RG 436, folder 249.
26. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Fifty Years of Yiddish Literature in the United States’, YIVO Annual of Jewish
Social Science, 9 (1954), pp. 72–82 (p. 81).
27. ‘Fun der redaktsye’, Zamlbikher, 1 (1936), p. 447.
28. Melekh Ravitsh, ‘Yid un velt — velt un yid’, Zamlbikher, 7 (1948), pp. 398–409 (pp. 406–07).
29. Opatoshu’s son David wrote the screenplay for the 1971 film Romance of a Horsethief (with Yul
Brunner and Serge Gainsbourg). Thus, Opatoshu’s novel was to become the first Yiddish text
to serve as a basis for a Hollywood production.
Chapter 2
v
In New York Velder

Yosef/Joseph Opatoshu —
Constructing a Multinational, 20th Century,
(very) Modern Yiddish Identity
Dan Opatoshu
The opening round table discussion at the International Academic Conference

on Joseph Opatoshu, held in Regensburg in April of 2012, was entitled ‘S’iz shver
tsu zayn a yidisher shrayber (It’s hard to be a Yiddish writer) — the Case of Yoysef
Opatoshu’. I must confess that my inner reaction when first seeing this in the
conference programme was a shrugging: ‘in der emesn, iz es take nisht geven azoy
shver...’ (In truth, it wasn’t really all that tough...).
In contrast to the other participants, my contribution here is not based on
academic scholarship, close readings of the literary texts, examinations of essays,
speeches, and correspondence. Instead, it’s more a woefully anecdotal biography
and character description, based on personal observation, interactions with the cast
of characters of my grandfather Yosef ’s world, and inherited family lore, some of
which I only became privy to as I reached a certain level of maturity.
Although I was a mere seven and a half years old when my grandfather died, the
brief number of years belies the amount of time I actually spent with him and the
deep impression he and his circle left on me. I am the only child of an only child,
and thus was the only grandchild. My parents took grateful advantage of the delight
my grandparents felt in my company — I was dropped off at Yosef and Adela’s
apartment every Friday afternoon, not to be retrieved until late Sunday. My every
summer, from early June until the first cold snap of autumn, was spent with them
at their unweatherized dacha in Croton Falls, New York.
Every Friday night at his Manhattan apartment Opatoshu hosted a secular shabes
tish (Sabbath Table), where his Yiddishist colleagues assembled to discuss and debate
the new cultural, political, and personal developments in their world. Among the
constant regulars were the poets H. Leivick, Glantz-Leyeles, the critic Shlomo
Bickel, and, during his years in America, the artist Marc Chagall, along with their
respective wives. Of course, these heated discussions and presentations of new work
went completely over my head. Indeed, I spent most of these evenings under the
table, diligently untying the shoelaces of the assembled literati.
In New York Velder 19
Fig. 1: Yosef and Dan, Croton Falls, NY

The photographs in this chapter are drawn from the private archive of
the Opatoshu family, to whom the publishers are grateful
20 Dan Opatoshu
The only occasion that I can recall making a contribution to the debate occurring
above me was when my five-year-old ears pricked up at the repeated brandishing of
what I knew to be an unacceptable epithet. I rose to my feet and angrily admonished
the assembled that it was a bad word, you should never use that word, a really, really,
bad word! I had interrupted a contentious discussion of the latest published musings
of the critic and essayist Shmuel Niger. The memory of the laughter that greeted
my declaration of righteous disapproval still causes me shame.
Out of Yiddishist principle and conviction, my grandparents would speak to me
solely in Yiddish, although I was permitted to reply in English. This extended to
bedtime readings. Of course, other than the occasional wonderful Yiddish children
book by Chaver Paver, this meant rather slim pickings. And like all young literary
enthusiasts, I demanded that my favourites be read again, and again, and again. And
those favourites consisted largely of comic books — Little Lulu, Nancy and Sluggo,
the Walt Disney characters. No problem. Yosef and Adela would patiently read me
these tomes over and over, but in simultaneous translation. I never thought to won
der how Huey, Dewey, and Louie had mastered such an elegant, literary Yiddish.
But Opatoshu was also a weaver of tales, and delighted in regaling me with
original bedtime stories. These usually involved a young child, remarkably just
about my age, being chased through the forests of Poland by wild packs of ravenous,
salivating wolves. Trying to simultaneously cover my eyes and ears with my little
hands, I strained to hear every terrifying development and detail. I later learned that
my father, growing up, was treated to the same petrifying entertainments.
Figs 2 and 3 (above): Yosef ’s parents, Dovid and Nantshe Opatovski

That the setting for these yarns was the Polish woods is no surprise. Born in the
Stupsk Forest, near Mlava, Opatoshu was inspired by the family stories told by his
mother, Nantshe, who came from generations of forest dwellers. His father, Dovid,
was a lumber merchant, a maskil, descendant of a long line of Hasidic rabbis. (The
family tree that Opatoshu researched and compiled begins in 1520, in Tannhausen,
Mittelfranken.)
Dovid personally instructed his three sons in Hebrew and Talmud–Torah, but
assured that they received a secular education. Yosef attended the Russian-language
government school in Mlava, a business school in Warsaw, and then engineering at
the polytechnic institute in Nancy, France. (As an adult, he was f luent in Yiddish,
Hebrew, German, Russian, Polish, English, and French, albeit with a distinctively
heavy poylishe yidish spoken accent in all seven.)
Short of funds, Opatoshu had to return from France to Mlava in 1906, where the
nineteen-year-old cut a rather dashing figure, sporting large f loppy hats, f lowing
capes, silk cravats, and a stylish pencil moustache. Complementing the artistic,
almost Oscar Wildeish presentation, he began to write short stories.
This newly returned debonair European sophisticate quickly caught the eye
of the considerably younger Mlava native Adela Wolfe. Blond, blue-eyed, an
inveterate seductress, Adela was the eldest of an eventual five sisters. All shared
cultural and intellectual ambitions — after the family immigrated to America, one
became a sculptor, one a writer for American radio; two wed university professors.
Adela married Opatoshu.
Fig. 4 (left): The young Yosef, ‘a rather dashing figure’

Fig. 5 (right): The young Adela Wolfe, ‘an inveterate seductress’
22 Dan Opatoshu
Yosef had arrived in America in 1907, doing a variety of low-paying jobs

(teaching Hebrew, selling newspapers, working in a shoe factory) while pursuing
his engineering studies at night at Cooper Union. Yet he continued to write and
publish stories throughout this period. He received his engineering degree in 1914,
and worked brief ly for the firm that later built the George Washington Bridge.
But that same year the Yiddish-language daily newspaper Der tog (The Day) was
founded, and Opatoshu was invited to join the staff. He wrote a short story for that
publication once a week for forty years, until his death.
Opatoshu quickly embraced his new American (but still Yiddish) identity, with
much of his early work centred on the American Jewish immigrant experience.
His personal physical presentation changed accordingly, as photos attest. Gone was
the European frippery. Indeed, in a photo of his then literary circle, New York’s
Di Yunge (The Young Ones), he, Mani Leib, Moyshe Leyb Halperin, and Zishe
Landau resemble hit men from Monk Eastman’s Lower East Side gang more than
idealistic poets and writers.
Fig. 6: Di Yunge: Yosef ’s gang

of young writers in New York
Adela had never lost her crush on the romantic literary figure she remembered
seeing as a young girl in Mława, and when she and Opatoshu met up again in New
York she quickly ensnared him. They were married in 1917, and a son was born the
following year. But in addition to being a lifelong ‘keeper of Opatoshu’s f lame’, she
continued to pursue her own professional goals, and for decades had the distinction
of being the only female teacher of the upper-level Yiddish language and literature
courses at the Arbeter Ring shule (Workmen’s Circle School).
Fig. 7: Yosef, Adela, and baby Dovid, 1918

24 Dan Opatoshu
Yosef ’s and Adela’s personal lives were completely enmeshed in the international
world of Yiddish culture. The members of their closest circle were politically of the
left, culturally and artistically experimental, and socially bohemian. Three couples
were particularly entwined, more so than family — the Opatoshus, Leivicks, and
Glantzes. Beyond daily contact, mutual associations, and creative collaboration,
they all lived together — at least during the summers. During the 1920s and 1930s,
the three families would collectively rent a rambling farmhouse in Putnam County,
NY, close to the Westchester border. There, along with their respective children
David, Daniel, and Dina, the three couples would enjoy the equivalent of a three-
month shabes tish, writing, cooking, debating, creating.
Fig. 8: At the summer house: the Opatoshus, the Glantzes and the Leivicks
It was an intensified version of their life in the city, with one singular wrinkle in
the living arrangements: for the length of each summer, the Opatoshus and Glantzes
would switch mates, Adela sharing a bedroom with Glantz-Leyeles, Yosef with
Fanya Glantz. At the end of the summer, back in the city, the physical relationships
would end, not to be resumed until the following June. However, throughout
the year, Adela would remain Glantz’s muse, and Fanya, Opatoshu’s, always being
the first to read or hear a new poem, story, or important chapter for reaction and
critique, before the actual spouse was similarly consulted.
When this relationship was first revealed to me during my late teens in con
versation with my mother, I was sceptical. My father later, reluctantly, confirmed
the general details. And a number of years after that, while jointly killing a bottle
of vodka, Dina Glantz Levitt, then a highly respected editor of documentary films,
happily filled in the more salacious details. Each one of them, Dina, Danny Leyvik
and my father, was an only child, all approximately the same age, and thus the
practical equivalent of siblings for their entire lifetimes. Dina told me of her surprise
Fig. 9: The Glantzes and the Opatoshus,

close couples who enjoyed an unconventional relationship
upon first discovering that the personal dynamics of this extended ‘family’ were not
the universal model.
However shocking for its time, the treatment of sexuality and lust in Opatoshu’s
writings was not an anomalous, wholly imaginative departure from his actual
persona. Both he and Adela were highly sexualized, sensual individuals. Women of
all generations have told me that they found Yosef an extremely attractive figure —
forceful, confident, lusty, f lirty, but always appreciative and respectful. Adela was
seductive with all men, including her son and grandson. She was also extremely
strong willed and manipulative. Quick to take offence, she declared herself serially
and continually baleydikt (insulted) by friends, family, and associates. This led to
an ongoing series of feuds, which Yosef spent a lifetime patching up. Once he
was gone, they festered, never resolved. There were at least three occasions when
the presumed insult came from my mother, and for years at a time Adela would
not set foot in our home. Of course, this translated to my father and I having to
make weekly individual visits to her home, where she could enjoy us without the
competing presence of another significant female figure.
When both Yosef and Fanya Glantz passed away in the 1950s (I can’t recall which
death preceded the other), Adela naturally assumed that she and Glantz would
resume being an ‘item’. She was more than outraged when instead Glantz married
another widow, Sophie, whom, to add insult to injury, he had been introduced to
26 Dan Opatoshu
by my maternal grandmother. Not only did this mean a complete break for Adela
from Glantz, but also with the Leyviks, who refused her demand to ostracize the
philanderer.
But although her circle of friends continually diminished, a stream of lovers was
always in supply. However, these had to be of significant intellectual and cultural
weight and reputation to deserve her attentions. When the final one, Mendl Elkin,
a theatre activist and at the time chief librarian of the YIVO, died, Adela informed
me that she had no reason to go on living. There were no more suitable candidates
out there. And without the experience of a man arriving at her door bearing
f lowers, even if only once a week, for some stimulating conversation, some shared
food and drink, some lovemaking, followed by further passionate engagement
with weighty intellectual subjects — she had no interest in going on. And indeed,
within a few months of Elkin’s death, Adela committed suicide with a cocktail of
Johnny Walker Black and a bottle of sleeping pills. She was in her seventies and in
perfect health.
Fig. 10: Yosef and Adela in 1917, the year of their marriage
But let’s turn back to happier, earlier times. Although far from being wealthy,
Opatoshu, almost from the start, enjoyed a comfortable, middle-class existence.
Between his weekly stories for Der tog (Day), their periodic republication in
collected book form, regular contributions to other newspapers and periodicals
in Warsaw, Buenos Aires, and the United States, his novels, their translation and
publication in other languages, lecture fees, and continual foreign travel for lectures
and book tours, he was one of the few Yiddish writers who never needed a second
career or ‘day job’. Adela supplemented the family income through her teaching
career. His economic position was somewhat equivalent to a tenured academic at

the time, albeit a particularly globetrotting one.
This allowed him, the child of the forest, to reside for the vast majority of his life
in dwellings that offered a glimpse of nature — not an easy task in New York City.
His writing desk always afforded a pastoral view from a window. The apartment
my father grew up in, on Fulton Avenue in the Bronx, overlooked Indian Lake in
Crotona Park. During the years I was around, he resided on Riverside Drive and
150th Street in Manhattan, with windows facing the Hudson river and Riverside
Park. He gazed out at the f lowing waters and changing seasons whilst summoning
up the Vistula and birch forests of his stories and novels.
Yet my impression of the abode was always of a dark, if endlessly fascinating,
space. This wasn’t due to lighting, or furniture choices, but to the vast collection of
books, Judaica, and works of art that filled every cranny. Gifted canvases, drawings,
sculptures, and woodcuts from Chagall, Mané-Katz, Glicenstein, Yankl Adler,
Bernard Reder, and many others fought for exhibition space. Floor-to-ceiling
bookcases took up walls not only in the living and dining rooms, but in both
bedrooms. And with every trip abroad, Opatoshu added to his collection of historic
Judaica ceremonial art: khanuka menorahs, kiddush cups, shabes candlesticks,
parchment scrolls in arcs, and, the best to play with, sweet- and pungent-smelling
havdalah spice boxes in every imaginable shape. (My favourite was the clove-filled
silver fish with hinged head and swinging tail.)
The one place where Opatoshu was able to preserve and revel in a truly bucolic
setting was his summer ‘dacha’ in Croton Falls, NY, in Westchester County close
to the Connecticut border. Now a well-developed commuter suburb in the seventh
wealthiest county in the United States, through the 1960s the area was still largely
‘country’. His two-bedroom cottage was one of about a dozen, each on its own acre
or half-acre of land, all built by a wealthy Jewish developer in the late 1930s who
was a keen aficionado of art and literature. His vision was to create an inexpensive
pastoral community for Yiddish writers, poets, and artists. But when the wells had
been dug, the dirt roads laid, electricity connected, and construction completed,
Opatoshu was the only member of his creative circle able to come up with the
pledged key money. The other bungalows were sold to the people who could
actually afford them — poshete arbeter, union workers. Fishl Bernstein was a furrier,
Dovid Twersky a house painter. But these were highly political, very literate, and
intellectual men, and Opatoshu enjoyed their company immensely.
Above all, he enjoyed the connection to nature; his small vegetable garden;
picking wild berries; the frightening infernos that he built in the pit he had dug
to burn the weekly garbage. He put in the daily requisite hours at his shraybtish
(writing desk), but the rest of the day could be spent reading on the lawn or small
balcony, and long walks. Three or four times a week there was the mile or two
shpatsir (stroll) to the two-street town of Croton Falls, which consisted of a train
station, Jimmy’s grocery store, a drug store with soda fountain, a one room library,
a fire station, and a post office. There Opatoshu would mail in his weekly story
to Der tog, collect the Yiddish newspapers to which he subscribed, and send and
receive the ongoing correspondence with colleagues in New York, Europe, and the
Soviet Union.
28 Dan Opatoshu
Figs 11 and 12: The summer bungalow owned by the Opatoshus from the
late 1930s onward: a ‘connection to nature’ in Westchester County.
Yosef leans contentedly out on his balcony
I loved accompanying him on these excursions, with him brandishing one of his
large collection of artistic walking sticks, and me aping his rhythms with whatever
twig or small branch he snapped down to my appropriate size. My favourite trek
was the weekly one to a farm down the road, where we loaded up with fresh eggs,
sweet corn, summer squash, and whatever else was being harvested that day. It was
clearly one of Yosef ’s favourite destinations also, as he invariably spent hours in
conversation with the farmer and his family. They were the only African-American
family I recall encountering in Westchester County and its environs during those
years. Of course his New York crowd remained frequent visitors, generously being
put up in the spare bedrooms of the collective cottage owners. And photos attest
that Yosef ’s attachment to country walking sticks was not unique to him alone.
This pastoral aspect of Opatoshu’s life was more than balanced by the international
one. Every few years he would embark on lengthy travels abroad. In the 1920s and
1930s these were primarily to Europe (Poland and France), but included visits to
the Soviet Union and Palestine. After the war, his focus shifted to South America
and Israel. On these excursions he visited with family, met with fellow writers and
artists, attended conferences, and gave lectures.
From the earliest trips back, with his wife and son in 1922 and 1929, it was very
much the triumphal return of a man who found fame and fortune in the New World.
Indeed, there is a cartoon from this period of Opatoshu, his easily caricatured visage
with strong nose meeting sharp chin, lying in a hammock strung in a large grove
of trees. He is lackadaisically picking leaves off the branches surrounding him. Each
leaf is a dollar bill. The banner emblazoned across the forest is In poylishe velder (In
Polish Woods, his best-known novel).
Fig. 13: Glantz and Leivick visiting

Opatoshu in Croton Falls
30 Dan Opatoshu
Fig. 14: Moscow, 1934, Conference of Soviet Yiddish Writers
Fig. 15: Kacyzne, Malamud, Opatoshu, Leyvik, Kletskin, Mayzel

Fig. 16: Mayzel, Markish, Opatoshu, I. J. Singer, Ravitsh
Fig. 17: With the Chagall family and Daniel Charney in Paris
32 Dan Opatoshu
The frequent trips afforded Opatoshu the opportunity to forge and maintain
strong bonds with the major figures of international Yiddish culture, relationships
that were fortified by regular written correspondence between the continents.
He also relished the opportunities the trips afforded to visit Yiddish schools and
meet with the young students — whom he no doubt expected to become his future
audience of readers. Opatoshu was never a humble man, and there can be no doubt
that in addition to the genuine pleasure he took in the company of his European
colleagues, and the boost in sales of his books that his appearances engendered, he
also took pleasure in the level of celebrity he enjoyed on these excursions. True, he
was held in similar regard within the cocoon of Yiddish culture in New York, but
in the larger pond of that metropolis he must have realized that he was often no
more than the nice man in apartment 5A.
By the time I knew him, the holocaust had already occurred. The future audience
of European children he once visited no longer existed. And the letters sent to his
long-time correspondents in the Soviet Union were, one after another, returned
stamped ‘Person Unknown’ or ‘No Such Address’.
His seeming resilience strikes me as astonishing. His writing continued apace.
His belief in the future and importance of Yiddish and Yiddish culture appeared
unshaken. As previously mentioned, the destinations of his foreign journeys might
Fig. 18: At Peretz School, Pruzhany, Belarus (but then part of Poland)
Fig. 19: Vilna, 1937
have changed — now to Argentina, Uruguay, France, Israel — but the travel
continued, as well as the visits to schools and youth organizations. There was,
however, a clear shift in the subject matter for his major works. Gone were the
examinations of the European historical Jewish past. Instead his final two-part
novel, Der letster oyfshtand (The Last Revolt), went further back in time to second-
century Judaea, which he populated with Jewish fighters and heroes facing down
formidable odds: a past ref lecting hopes for a triumphant future.
During his last few years Opatoshu suffered from extremely high blood pressure.
Today, one pill a day would have controlled it. In the early 1950s, it could only
be alleviated through diet: no salt, no meat. The food in the Opatoshu kitchen
consisted of unseasoned chicken, fish, boiled potatoes, and farmer’s cheese, a diet
that even a seven-year-old’s taste buds found unpleasantly bland, let alone those of
a mature, lusty sensualist.
But although Yosef stuck to it stringently, it wasn’t a sufficient palliative. He
suffered a massive stroke which killed him instantly. At the moment he was felled
he was dressing to attend the opening night of a Broadway comedy in which my
father had one of his first major roles on the American stage. My father raced to
the apartment on 150th Street, kissed Yosef ’s lips a final time, and jumped on the
subway for the trip down Broadway to arrive at the theatre in time for the opening
curtain. It was Yom Kippur nightfall, 1954.
34 Dan Opatoshu
Fig. 20: Yosef and Adela in 1950

Chapter 3
v
Soviet Dreams of a Cultural Exile

Gennady Estraikh
Communism [...] is an anxiety, spurt, great excitement, feeling of bitterness

and enthusiasm of belief, which embraces the entire world of people, inspires
the masses, enchants the youth [...]
Shmuel Niger (1936)1
I
In her 1981 article ‘Di Yunge: Immigrants or Exiles?’, the historian of Jewish
literature Ruth Wisse comes to the conclusion that, after a period of fascination
with the American scene, writers of these group, including Joseph Opatoshu,
showed — particularly during the First World War — ‘a surge of interest in the past,
and the longer the writers remained in America, the more firmly they returned to
old landscapes and themes’. Moreover, their artistic career ‘followed a pattern of
progressive estrangement from America rather than one of progressive acculturation
as one would normally have expected’.2 Fascination with ‘old landscapes’ had
increased following the revolutionary transformation in Russia. The prominent
socialist Baruch Charney Vladeck, who was of the same age as Opatoshu and also
arrived in the United States in 1907, wrote in 1917 that he himself was surprised
to realize that, despite his successful integration in American society, Russia, ‘that
great wonderful land, which was so cursed and which is now so blessed’, continued
to occupy a very important place in his heart, head, and soul.3 Vladeck, one of
the earliest enthusiastic reviewers of Opatoshu’s writings,4 worked in 1917 as the
city editor of the socialist daily Forverts (Forward), whose editor, Abraham Cahan,
published in that year his much-acclaimed novel The Rise of David Levinsky. One
of its characters, a Hebrew poet, believes that ‘America is my cage. [...] Russia is a
better country than America [...] It’s a freer country, too — for the spirit, at least’.5
While New York-based Yiddish literati certainly felt less boxed in than, for
instance, their Hebrew counterparts, they also could find reasons to consider
themselves living in exile. Half of American Yiddish writers earned their living
working for newspapers (40 per cent) or schools (10 per cent), while the remaining
half of the literary community should find other, often low-paid jobs in order to
provide themselves and their families.6 As a rule, they had few, if any, contacts with
the American English-language literary world. According to Opatoshu, some of
his colleagues, such as Mani Leib, Zishe Landau, and David Ignatov, did not find it
36 Gennady Estraikh
particularly necessary to know the language or the literature of the United States.7
On the other hand, Opatoshu’s knowledge of the language and the literature did
not make much more porous the cultural confines, in which he lived, within the
shrinking circles of Yiddish speakers and readers.
Although the American Yiddish press still boasted high circulation numbers
and Yiddish theatres attracted thousands of spectators, there were clear signs of
unavoidable decline. Most indicative of all, American-born and America-reared
children of eastern European Jewish immigrants cared very little about Yiddish
and Yiddish belles-lettres. Moreover, only a small minority of parents strove to
educate their children in Yiddish. The masses perceived Yiddish as a language
of little value even in the 1910s, when many intellectuals embraced the language
of the masses.8 In 1918, only 105 boys and seventy girls attended the New York-
based Sholem Aleichem Schools — the pioneering network of Yiddish-language
afternoon educational institutions in the United States. Although North American
Yiddish education networks grew impressively in the early 1920s, the number of
children able to read and speak Yiddish easily because of a few years’ attendance
at these supplementary schools was ‘not overwhelming’.9 Illuminatingly, Yiddish
dailies began to introduce English sections in Sunday issues, while Yiddish book
publishing remained in a bad way.10
In the meantime, Europe beckoned, with its unprecedented possibilities for
Jewish culture. The Kultur-Lige, or Culture League, established in Kiev in 1918
with the aim of building a non-partisan, transnational framework for developing
Yiddish culture, provided a model for similar Yiddishist organizations in the
former Russian empire and elsewhere. Baruch Charney Vladeck’s brother, Shmuel
Niger, one of the ideologists of Yiddishism and the first head of the Vilna Kultur-
Lige, came to New York at the end of 1919 and, after a very short stint at Forverts,
moved to Der Tog (Day), thus becoming Opatoshu’s colleague. Among the New
York Yiddish dailies, Der Tog, founded in 1914, stood out as a forum with a high
intellectual standard. Ideologically, it rather eclectically combined Yiddishist-
leaning nationalism, liberalism, and radicalism. Eclectic was also the world-view of
one of its most inf luential contributors — Chaim Zhitlowsky, the New York-based
Yiddishist guru.
No doubt, Zhitlowsky’s and Niger’s outlooks contributed to Opatoshu’s own
vision of Jewish, predominantly diasporic, nation-building. Although Niger brief ly
worked at Soviet Jewish institutions in Moscow, he did not carry the communist
ideology. Rather, he welcomed revolution because — as he and his like believed
at that time — the revolution had created an environment for Jewish nation-
building, while Kultur-Lige, a product of that environment, was perceived as an
important conduit for Yiddish cultural projects. Opatoshu might participate in the
foiled endeavour, led by Niger, to establish a New York-based Kultur-Lige aimed
at raising the cultural level of the Yiddish-speaking population.11
In the 1920s and 1930s, Opatoshu travelled to Europe every few years. In his
own words:
Warsaw and Vilna attracted me. However, from afar it always looked better
than it appeared after travelling thousands miles away from home. So, I would
Soviet Dreams of a Cultural Exile 37
return to America, but was again attracted [to Europe], and thus it repeated
almost until the beginning of the war.12
On his first trip to Europe, in 1922, he took part in the attempts to build in Poland
an organizational structure for Kultur-Lige. By that time, a group of Kultur-Lige’s
leading activists had moved from Kiev to Warsaw and positioned their publishing
house as a pan-diasporic outlet for high-quality literature. According to a 1922
memorandum of the Warsaw Kultur-Lige, cultural products should be created ‘in
accord with the ideals of ’ the Jewish masses and ‘with the spirit of their endeavours
for liberations’. Activists of Kultur-Lige knew that their intended audience were
little educated, therefore they aimed at ‘the uplifting of the masses’.13 Thanks to the
Kultur-Lige publishing house, Opatoshu’s novel In poylishe velder (In Polish Woods)
contributed to the ‘uplift’, being published in Warsaw in 1922 with a print-run of
3,500 and reproduced fourteen times in the coming years.14
Opatoshu was not the only transatlantic Yiddish belletrist. For instance, Peretz
Hirschbein, his fellow writer on Der tog, and Sholem Asch, the star writer of Forverts,
spent many years of their life travelling or even living abroad. Yet Opatoshu’s
transatlantic connections were certainly among the strongest. Characteristically,
only a minority of his books appeared in the United States, and the film In Polish
Woods, based on his bestselling novel, was produced in Poland in 1929. In 1928,
when he came to Poland after a three-year hiatus, the Warsaw weekly Literarishe
bleter (Literary Pages), a spin-off from the Kultur-Lige project, put his photo on the
front page of its 1 June issue and welcomed him as
a permanent resident (toyshev), with deep roots in local life, in local cultural
circles. Opatoshu symbolizes in the best way how wrong it is to speak about
separate Yiddish literatures. Like works of all great Jewish artists, his writings
always contribute to removing the obstacles built between countries by
parochial, narrow-minded Jewish patriots. What is his In Polish Woods or 1863
— a Yiddish American or a Yiddish Polish work?15
This note clearly alluded to David Bergelson’s 1926 article ‘Three Centres’, which
brought turmoil into Yiddish literary circles, because it meant that Bergelson, who
then lived in Berlin and initially positioned himself as a critic of the Soviet regime,
had radically changed his stance towards Moscow. Most importantly, he announced
that in the Soviet Union, ‘a revitalized country’ where the future was ‘bright and
glowing’, Yiddish culture had much better chances to develop than in the United
States or Poland.16 Thus, Bergelson further developed the model of Opatoshu’s close
friend, the poet H. Leivick, then a communist fellow traveller, who, during his 1925
visit to the Soviet Union, had spoken about the three competing centres. The article
‘Three Centres’ appeared in the short-lived journal In shpan (In Harness), whose
main objective, rooted in supra-political values of Kultur-Lige, was to consolidate
Yiddish literary circles scattered all over the world. As Bergelson explained, in a
letter to Opatoshu typed on the letterhead of In shpan, ‘I hope it will be the journal
that we are all waiting for, rather than a journal. It is quite possible that the journal
will be permitted to enter Russia’. It was a naive hope: such a permit was never
obtained.17
Thanks to Yakov Shternberg, a Romanian, and later Soviet, Yiddish poet,
38 Gennady Estraikh
playwright, and theatre director, we know how Opatoshu and Bergelson first
met in Romanisches Café, the legendary hub of Berlin-based intellectuals, and
that Opatoshu was not particularly impressed by his talkative colleague.18 Still,
their relations remained friendly, at least on the surface. In November 1928, when
Bergelson arrived in New York as a guest of the Yiddish communist daily Frayhayt
(Freedom), Opatoshu was among those local writers, mainly communist ones, who
welcomed him at the port. The two leading Yiddish novelists would meet and
correspond also in the 1930.19 Nonetheless, Opatoshu became particularly close
to Peretz Markish, who was a linchpin among young Warsaw Yiddish bohemians
when they met in 1922. They also spent some time — together with Marc Chagall
and the Yiddish novelist Oyzer Varshavsky — in Paris, in April 1924.20
Like Leivick, Bergelson and many other Jewish intellectuals, Opatoshu sought
to develop centrifugal forces able to preserve the unity of Yiddish literature —
hence his central role in the process of establishing the Yiddish PEN Club. That
process, also partly engineered by Kultur-Lige activists, was full of intrigue,
because the International PEN Club, established in 1922, initially admitted only
one organization from each country. Ultimately, the international organization
decided to admit the Yiddish club when it had established chapters in Poland and
America and selected Vilna as an acceptable place for its headquarters; Warsaw and
New York could not qualify for this role because they already housed the Polish
and American PEN clubs. Opatoshu, vice-president of the American Yiddish
PEN Club, was delegated to represent Yiddish literature at the congress of the
International PEN Club, which then took place in Oslo.21 This happened in 1928,
the year when he also visited the Soviet Union.
II
Like many western intellectuals, Opatoshu became attracted to the Soviet Union,
particularly to the Jewish cultural life, which found an unprecedented support and
encouragement of the communist state. In December 1925, Opatoshu wrote to H.
Leivick:
If Jewish Russia were to invite me for a couple of years, and grant me a stipend,
I would write a novel of Russian life. It’s sad, Leivick, you are read, you are
renowned, but there is no home [un nishto keyn heym] [...] Why shouldn’t we be
where we are needed, where we can write something substantial?22
However, it seems that, in the first half of the 1920s, the attitude to him of Soviet
Yiddish critics remained lukewarm. Nokhum Oyslender, who in the second half
of the 1920s would head literary studies at the Yiddish academic centres in Minsk
and then in Kiev, described Opatoshu’s writings as ‘skyless art’ which ref lected the
writer’s isolation and his tendency to mix reality with dreams.23 Isaac Nusinov, a
leading Soviet literary expert, deemed Opatoshu’s children’s story ‘Der mishpet’ (The
Trial, published in Warsaw, in the Kultur-Lige’s book series for children) unsuit
able to the Soviet young generation, because it contained elements of superstition,
which — according to Nusinov — had already disappeared from the Soviet
youngster’s outlook.24 Soon, however, that same Nusinov would act as an ‘interface
critic’, promoting Opatoshu to publishers and readers as one of the most significant
Yiddish writers. Without an ‘interface’, linking the Yiddish milieu with the Russian-
language mainstream, Yiddish authors — Soviet and foreign — usually could not
transcend the borders of their literary circles. Judgements of inf luential decision-
makers determined also the publishing policy of Soviet Yiddish outlets. Nusinov,
whose professorial and editorial careers made him an expert in both Russian and
Yiddish cultural worlds, was able to shift the balance in decision-making.
The attitude to Opatoshu became radically different following Peretz Markish’s
repatriation to the Soviet Union. As a result, from 1926 on Opatoshu had there a
motivated friend, who very soon became known also outside the Yiddish literary
circles. Markish’s meteoric rise to Soviet literary prominence is a phenomenon
that deserves a separate study. No doubt the Yiddish poet’s integration into the
mainstream, predominantly Russian-language bohemian milieu acted for Opa
toshu as a lure, especially in contrast to his essentially cocooned New York intel
lectual environment. Yiddish intellectuals in Moscow and other Soviet cities also
formed a subcultural milieu, but it was a subculture in the surrounding culture,
whereas in the United States the Yiddish subcultural milieu belonged, first of all,
to the transnational diasporic Jewish cultural world rather than to the American
intellectual landscape.
An important role in shaping Markish’s literary reputation was played by
Nusinov, who always remained in the forefront of mainstream ideological debates,
but found time for activities in the field of Yiddish literature. Markish and Nusinov
had formed a close friendship and their tandem considerably defined the position
of Opatoshu and his writings in the Soviet realm. Both apparently believed that
Opatoshu’s prose could refine the Soviet Yiddish literary menu, which lacked,
especially in the 1920s, any significant novelists. In 1926, Nusinov went so far as to
state that until 1924 there had been virtually no Yiddish literature written in the
Soviet Union.25
On 5 April 1927, Markish informed Opatoshu that the Soviet Yiddish establish
ment would like to invite him to visit the country. The friend promised him to
show such hospitality that he would think twice about leaving Russia.
We’ll travel together to beautiful places and you’ll once again fall in love
with the Russians’ land [ fonyes land]. Without asking you, I am negotiating
publication of your novel. Royalties are here sumptuous [kiyad-hamelekh]. For
one book of twenty printer’s sheets, you could get a thousand dollars in cash.
And after putting to bed [opkvetshn] your novel, we’ll see how to sell a collection
of your novellas, also for the same amount. Thus, dear Opatoshu, plan your
next summer so that you can spend some time here. I think this is a place of
great opportunities. Let alone that you’ll enrich your life with an experience
no other place can give you anywhere else in the world.26
Information about royalties paid in cash was meaningful, because the Poland-based
publishers usually ‘paid with copies of the book’.27 In fact, in many cases there
were logistical problems with sending abroad royalties paid by Soviet institutions.
Nonetheless, as letters to Opatoshu from his Soviet friends show, he would
ultimately, by hook or by crook, get the payment. For instance, a Soviet-based
40 Gennady Estraikh
office of a foreign organization, such as the Moscow outlet of American Jewish

Joint Distribution Committee, could accept the Soviet currency, rubles, and pay
Opatoshu a dollar equivalent in America. Similarly, an even swap could be made
with an American colleague who wanted to help his relatives living in the Soviet
Union.
On 26 May 1927, Markish wrote that he found an excellent translator into
Russian and Ukrainian. Her name was Zinaida Ioffe, and either before or during
the translation project she became Markish’s new partner. On 18 December 1930,
Markish, who by that time had married Esther Markish-Lazebnikova (she does not
mention Opatoshu in her oft-cited memoirs The Long Return), wrote to Opatoshu
that ‘from Zinaida Ioffe’s translations’ he had got a daughter, who would soon turn
18 months. In the meantime, Ioffe had translated Roman fun a ferd-ganev (Romance
of a Horse Thief ) into Russian and In Polish Woods into Ukrainian. In 1929, both
books came out in Kharkov, then the capital of Soviet Ukraine and an important
Yiddish publishing centre. Even before Opatoshu’s first trip to the Soviet Union,
several of his works had appeared in that city. One of them, the story ‘Shukh-putser’
(Shoeblack), was issued as a separate pamphlet in 1927. In the same year, ‘Fayerdike
tslomim’ (Fiery Crosses) appeared in the Kharkov literary journal Di royte velt (Red
World, no. 1, 10–20). The protagonist of the story, a Polish Jewish immigrant,
becomes an unwilling participant in a conf lict between two groups of American
farmers: — Protestant Ku Klux Klan sympathizers and their Catholic opponents.
In his letter to Opatoshu (19 January 1927), Leyb Kvitko, managing editor of Di
royte velt, praised his ‘clear, cheerful language’, which corresponded perfectly well
with ‘the coming-into-being, sober [Soviet] environment’ and contrasted positively
with David Bergelson’s ‘sickly mood and sour laughter of his half-baked or over-
baked characters’.28 The Bergelson-versus-Opatoshu factor certainly had a place
in Soviet Yiddish literary circles, notorious for their cliquishness.29 As a result, a
positive or negative attitude to Opatoshu and his writings could ref lect the critic’s
position vis-à-vis Opatoshu’s friends, most notably Markish and Nusinov.
During his 1928 Soviet sojourn, Opatoshu was elated to see the unprecedented
amount of money and energy that the communist state had been investing in Yiddish
culture. Once in Warsaw, on his way back from the Soviet Union, he told, in an
interview to Literarishe bleter, about being present at a meeting which had decided
to allocate funds of 200,000 dollars for publishing a series of books by Yiddish
writers. As a footnote to that interview, Literarishe bleter listed Soviet publications
of Opatoshu’s books. In fact, only one volume — the Ukrainian translation of In
Polish Woods — had come out by that time. Several Yiddish volumes should come
out later: in Kharkov — the novel Arum Grend-strit (Around Grand Street), the
collection of stories Af yener zayt brik (On the Other Side of the Bridge), in Kiev —
Roman of a Horse Thief, as well as In Polish Woods and 1863. The Moscow publishing
house Zemlia i Fabrika (Land and Factory), one of the largest publishers in the
country, was planning to issue five volumes of translations of Opatoshu’s writings.
Coincidentally or not, Minsk, the stronghold of ideologists preaching ‘proletarian
literature’, did not feature in that list of imprints. Be that as it may, Opatoshu was
welcomed in Minsk, where the local critic Khatskel Dunets characterized him
as ‘the greatest representative of the American Yiddish prose world’. During the
literary gala in honour of Opatoshu’s visit, the guest spoke about the principal
difference between the United States and the Soviet Union: in the former, power
was in the hands of a very small sliver of society, whereas power belonged to the
masses in the Soviet Union. He already planned another Soviet sojourn, in 1931,
and was sorry that (for some reason) he would not be able to come earlier.30
In Moscow, receptions in his honour were thrown by the Society for the
Settlement of Jewish Toilers on the Land and at the Yiddish Club Communist.
Opatoshu told the audiences that he was particularly happy to find out that Jewish
colonists, in the Kherson province of Ukraine, did not want to remain individual
farmers. Rather, they strove to be part of agricultural collectives. He ridiculed
‘democratic America’, arguing that American workers envied their Soviet working-
class brethren, while American writers envied their Soviet colleagues.31
During his trip, Opatoshu was particularly taken by the number of young Soviet
readers of Yiddish literature. In an interview to Literarishe bleter, he said:
I had numerous encounters with various audiences. But never before I had seen
such an audience as that which I encountered there. They were intellectual
young people. People who read and understood — it was clear to me from the
questions they put to me.32
He was stunned to meet one of his readers right after crossing the Polish–Soviet
border, when his name was recognized by a young Soviet customs officer. And it
was a feast to his ears to hear young people conversing in their native Yiddish at the
platform of the Berdichev railway station.33
Berdichev, which Opatoshu described as the ‘most Jewish town’, generally made
strong impression on him. A dozen local synagogues had been closed down after
the revolution, but over fifty other synagogues continued to function in the town,
though young faces rarely popped up among the worshippers. Youth remained
visible only among the Braslav Hasidim, whom local residents regarded as com
munists of sorts, because the followers of Nahman of Braslav valued yegia (work)
and therefore were toilers, such as carpenters, smiths, and house painters. For
Opatoshu it was a joy to see that local Jewish dwellers, including the policemen,
spoke Yiddish, street signs were written in Yiddish, and a court of law functioned
in Yiddish. Opatoshu’s portrayal of the Berdichev court of law, which was the first
in Ukraine (opened in 1924) to conduct its affairs in Yiddish, has many similarities
with Israel Joshua Singer’s portrayal of a similar court in Minsk.34 Both writers
could not help but mention some funny anthropological and linguistic details of
this legal experiment.
About 500 children studied in Berdichev at schools with Yiddish as the language
of teaching. Apart from classes, pupils were engaged in agricultural activities,
including pig-breeding. At that time, many Jewish intellectuals considered pig-
breeding as a sign of modernization. Characteristically, the American Jewish Joint
Distribution Committee supplied Jewish farmers, including Zionist pioneers,
halutzim, with hogs of Yorkshire breed.35 Opatoshu, too, did not mention the
iconoclastic aspect of such activities. Rather, he noted that the Yorkshire breed
was twice as fat as the regular local varieties of pigs and therefore it was rational
42 Gennady Estraikh
to cultivate them. Later, visiting a Jewish agricultural colony, Opatoshu witnessed

a conf lict: a Jewish farmer wanted to get a cow instead of a hog, though his wife
preferred to have a hog and the local agronomist tried to convince the stubborn
man about the rationality of keeping pigs.36
In Jewish orphanages, children were surprised to hear from Opatoshu that their
American peers usually could not speak Yiddish. Among the orphans were also
Kazakh and Russian children brought from the Volga area; in the environment
of Jewish orphanages, they had turned into f luent Yiddish-speakers. In Minsk,
Opatoshu talked with children who attended a primary religious school, heder,
which operated illegally, though everyone, including the authorities, knew about
its existence. Children, who studied during the day at regular schools and were
Young Pioneers (members of the children’s communist organization), told him
that they found little appeal in religious studies and would prefer to abandon heder.
Opatoshu went also to an advanced religious school, yeshiva, where he observed
‘characters from the Dybbuk’, S. An-ski’s play set in a parochial Jewish milieu. He
felt completely different when he visited state-run secular Yiddish schools: ‘I am
happy to be with them. We, Yiddish writers, have never engaged the youth. Our
readers have been people of the older generation’.37
Opatoshu knew the climate at American Jewish schools, especially as for a while
he himself was a teacher. It is no coincidence that one of his early novels, Hibru, is
set at and around a New York Hebrew school. A character in this novel spells out
a pessimistic view of the state of Yiddish in the United States: ‘The moment the
immigration stops, that moment all your [i.e. Yiddishists’] work will go down the
drain. Young people don’t speak and don’t understand Yiddish! Yiddish will decline
in a generation!’38 In his portrayal of New York, children, including children of
committed Yiddish activists, cannot, or are ashamed to, speak the language of
their parents, while the activists themselves shape a café-centred coterie of hapless,
eccentric bohemians. The picture that he saw in the Soviet Union looked radically
different and created hope that Yiddish culture would continue developing thanks
to the state patronage.
For all that, it would be wrong to characterize Opatoshu as a ‘useful idiot’, to
borrow the phrase that Lenin allegedly coined for describing naive and impres
sionable people who unwittingly supported the communist cause. Despite his
strong sympathy to Soviet forms of Jewish life, Opatoshu was not a follower of
communism. In some of his stories, American Jewish communists appeared as two-
faced people. Thus, in the 1929 story ‘Zind’ (Sin), the New York husband and wife
Grosses praise the Soviet Union for its uncompromised internationalism, but they
are unhappy when their daughter Chana meets (at a young communists’ hangout)
and befriends John, a black teenager. In the story ‘Royter fodem’ (Red Thread),
also written in 1929, the editor of a communist newspaper suggests a justification
for his dishonesty: ‘A card-carrying communist has to be consistent. He has no right
to hesitate when workers question him about something. The masses dislike it. And
there are things that they don’t have to know’.39
This divide between being pro-Soviet and, at the same time, critical of communists
was rather common among American intellectuals. Those who sympathized with
the communist movement without being party members would often join the
ranks of fellow travellers and work for communist organizations or periodicals.
Opatoshu, however, did not fully fit into the category of a fellow traveller. Rather,
he remained an enthusiastic political bystander attracted to the Soviet Union by
the unprecedented possibilities for Yiddish culture and, generally, for Jews. The
Kultur-Lige ideology (which he embraced) of developing highbrow, purpose-
oriented culture for the masses could seem compatible with Soviet approaches to
cultural activities; also, like many other foreign visitors who remembered life in the
pre-1917 Russian empire, Opatoshu hailed the disappearance of many ugly sides
of the past. Significantly, the Soviet Union appeared more winsome when it was
viewed in contrast with the depressing realities of Poland.40
III
As a bystander, Opatoshu could act as a go-between. On one occasion, in the
beginning of 1927, he negotiated on behalf of Israel Joshua Singer with editors
of the communist daily Frayhayt. Singer, then a Warsaw-based contributor to the
New York right-socialist Forverts, was toying with the (never materialized) idea of
moving to the communists.41
Leivick, who worked on Frayhayt and was undoubtedly a fellow traveller,
understood that Opatoshu had more leeway in dealing with the Communist
movement, whereas in Leivick’s case the choice was a binary one: either to be loyal
to the movement or to be treated as its enemy. Leivick wrote about it to Opatoshu
on 5 July 1929.42 In two months’ time his predictions became reality, when the anti-
Jewish violence in Palestine and its justification by the Kremlin triggered Leivick’s
and several other fellow travellers’ rupture with the Communist movement.
For many left-wing Jewish intellectuals, the year 1929 marked the end of a
distinctive period in their lives. The events in Palestine, known as the Hebron
massacre (on 24 August 1929), and their appraisal by the Comintern, were only one
of the reasons that complicated the relations between Soviet and non-Soviet Jewish
organizations and individuals. The consolidation of power in the hands of Stalin
and his followers had generally resulted in a more intolerant attitude to half-hearted
supporters of the Soviet state. As early as the beginning of 1929, Moshe (Moissaye)
Olgin, a founder of Frayhayt, called a meeting of about thirty top communist literati
without inviting the fellow travellers, such as Leivick. Olgin told them that the time
had come to form a separate writers’ association, because the communist press now
needed contributors who could write ‘with swords in their hands’. This was the
time when communists orchestrated the establishment of John Reed Clubs, first
in New York and then in other cities, while committed communist Yiddish men-
of-letters formed their organization and called it Proletpen, as an antipode to the
Yiddish PEN Club.43
Although Opatoshu did not have to leave or be rejected by Frayhayt, he joined
Leivick and other ex-Frayhayt writers as a co-founder of the break-away newspaper
with an ostentatiously non-political title: Di Vokh (Week). Ruth Wisse wrote about
this weekly:
44 Gennady Estraikh
Because these writers of Vokh broke with the Communist Frayhayt on the
issue of Palestine, it is often mistakenly assumed that in the struggle between
socialist and nationalist affiliation, they chose the nationalist, anti-Communist
side. But the process was hardly that simple. Actually, the break with the
Communist newspaper over a question of national sensitivity was painful to
these writers, because it appeared to show them up as rank chauvinists whose
narrow self-interest made them turn their backs on the ideals of universal
advancement. It was therefore necessary to stress, more than ever before, their
essential loyalty to the underlying principles of the USSR which remained
undiminished by their defection from the Frayhayt.
Thus the main energy of the writers of Vokh [...] was invested in transforming
the global struggle over Palestine into a purely internal Jewish conf lict. Not the
Soviet Union is held under suspicion, but the local Jewish Communists of New
York.44
This is Ruth Wisse’s conclusion, in the 1980s. The picture looked differently in
the eye of the ideological storm of that time, particularly in the circles of Soviet
Yiddish writers. On 3 November 1929, in a letter to Opatoshu, Markish described
the climate in those circles:
If you remember, you used to argue that, if you were a Soviet resident,
you would have joined the VUSPP [All-Ukrainian Association of Proletarian
Writers] and the Communist Party. You were thinking about it thanks to
your first-hand contact with our Soviet reality. It was a correct point of
view. However, it is more than a literary affair — to join the VUSPP and the
Communist Party. It means civic involvement and it means responsibility.
We don’t live here, in the Soviet Union, as guests who come to celebrate the
transformation of human life and restrict their participation to ‘raising toasts’.
We are not holders of ‘single entry cards’ and we don’t wait for a break, or
the end of the event, as an opportunity to leave the place. No, we are rooted
here with our blood and spirit and are incorporated in every movement, in
every breath taken by our country — because our hearts are palpitating in this
country. Therefore this or that address or stand represents all of us. So, it is
wrong to think that we are bound to act in some particular way.
You know very well that we are not under duress here. Everyone does
what he wants to do. In this particular case, following Leivick’s demonstrative
departure from Frayhayt, each of us felt not just pain, but the pain of a bleeding
wound. Because he had cut his links not only with Frayhayt, but had done it
also with all of us and with each of us. As for the attitude that all of us have to
Leivick, it is rather well known to you.45
Opatoshu’s relations with the Soviet literary world remained somewhat better than
Leivick’s relations, though Opatoshu’s books also stopped appearing in the Soviet
Union. Markish was glad that Opatoshu published his sharp rebuke to Abraham
Cahan, who by that time was considered to be one of the arch-enemies of the
Soviet Union.46 He also tried to reassure his American friend that the ban would
not last very long. On 17 May 1930, he wrote to Opatoshu: ‘You know very well
that we all love you. [...] And the temporary removal of your works from the series
of “Jewish writers” is simply a maneuver’.47 By that time, Markish already was a
battle-scarred arriviste to the Soviet cultural world. Although his story ‘Khaveyrim
kustarn’ (Comrades Artisans), published in Di royte velt, had strongly anti-religious
sentiment, with the plot developing around the transformation of a synagogue

into a workers’ club, it was lambasted by critics as an attempt to ridicule Jewish
party activists.48 Apparently, with this experience in mind, he (in a letter dated 25
October 1929) commented on Opatoshu’s story whose protagonist, a narobraznik,
or functionary of the Soviet educational system, showed tolerance to religion.
According to Markish, this story would be characterized as ‘right-wing deviation,
and you know very well, what right-wing deviation means here. I wish no Jew to
face such accusation’.49
At that time, militant atheism was part and parcel of the campaign led by Stalin’s
followers against the ‘right-wing opposition’ in the party.50 Markish knew that,
in this climate, Soviet editors could not publish Opatoshu’s story ‘Bam komisar’
(At the Commissar’s), portraying a few hours in the life of the narobraznik Yakov
Makov, the head of Soviet Ukraine’s ministry of education. This fictitious character
receives a delegation of Mountain Jews, who argue that their community cannot
live as Soviet Jews without having a shockhet and a mohel. On the same day, Makov’s
father David suddenly arrives to petition his son for opening a yeshiva in their
home shtetl of Shpola. In both cases, Makov is reluctant to be dogmatically anti-
religious, though he himself is thoroughly secular and is married to a woman with
a stereotypical Russian name, Natasha. Over the course of the narrative, the reader
also learns that on a previous occasion, when Shpola Jewish communists sought
to convert a local synagogue into a club (an allusion to Markish’s story?), David
Makov successfully tugged the strings of his family connections and thus saved the
synagogue.51
Nusinov also continued to correspond with Opatoshu. In his letter dated 23 May
1930, he made no secret of the direct link between Opatoshu’s association with Di
Vokh and the decision to stop the further publishing of his books. As a way out,
Nusinov suggested Opatoshu to come to the Soviet Union for a couple of years
and to move to Frayhayt. On 16 December 1930 he asked Opatoshu, sarcastically,
if he still belonged to those ‘friends of the Soviet Union’ who ‘protected’ the
communist country from the ‘erroneous’ tactics of the American and Soviet Jewish
communists. Nusinov had to admit with disappointment that little was left of the
atmosphere of the years 1923 and 1924, when the best foreign Yiddish writers used
to be more pro-Soviet than their non-Yiddish counterparts.52
After 1929, Opatoshu’s works in Yiddish were not strictly tabooed to be published
in the Soviet Union: his story ‘Koylngreber’ (Coal Miners) came out in Yiddish in
1930 in Kharkov and in 1939 in Moscow, and a Ukrainian translation of his story
Lintsheray (Lynching, or Linchuvannia in Ukrainian) was brought out in Kharkov
in 1931 with a print-run of 15,000.53 Nonetheless, the 1929 Russian renditions of
Romance of a Horse Thief, under the imprint of the Kharkov-based publishing house
Proletarii, translated by Zinaida Ioffe, and of In Polish Woods, under the imprint of
Zemlia i Fabrika, in Nusinov’s translation and with his introduction, became the
last Russian editions of his works in the Soviet Union. Maxim Gorky, the guru of
the Soviet literary world, criticized Nusinov’s Russian translation, finding funny
some of the expressions, such as ‘zuby krovotochat’ (‘teeth are bleeding’) and ‘duby
streliaiut prodolgovatymi shishkami’ (‘oaks are shooting with oblong cones’).54
46 Gennady Estraikh
Elsewhere I wrote that the Soviet publishing and literal-critical policies for
Yiddish works differed, sometimes significantly, from the policies in regard of
Russian and other translations of the same works.55 Indeed, the Russian translations
of Opatoshu’s novels were received in the Soviet Union relatively quietly, certainly
much more quietly than the publication in Kharkov of his novel Around Grand
Street, which came out in Yiddish. In a letter to Opatoshu, Nusinov mentioned
Shakhno Epshtein’s introduction to Around Grand Street, arguing that he could
not understand the logic of introducing a book by severely criticizing it. In fact,
Nusinov also had problems with this novel. Most importantly, it was not clear to
him in what direction this novel was leading and Opatoshu’s ideological standing
remained opaque to him. According to Nusinov, a dogmatic Bolshevik, they lived
at a time when one could not sit on the neutral fence; it was ‘either to work for
Frayhayt or to share Reisen’s destiny — to go in his old age to Yekl Shapshovitsh’s
brothel’. Nusinov meant Abraham Reisen, who, like Leivick, left Frayhayt in 1929,
but, unlike Leivick, soon afterwards joined Forverts, metonymized here in the
image of the brothel owned by Yekl Shapshovitsh, the protagonist of Sholem Asch’s
play Got fun nekome (God of Vengeance).56 (Angry labels were often given to various
Yiddish periodicals. For instance, Markish was quoted calling Literarishe bleter ‘a
hotel with bedbugs’.)57
Nusinov was playing dumb when he argued that Epshtein’s caustic introduction
was incompatible with the publisher’s decision to issue the book. He certainly
knew that a critical introduction, known among editors as a konvoi, or ‘safeguard’,
had found wide use in Soviet publishing as a way to palliate the ideological f laws
of somewhat questionable books.58 According to Epshtein, the main disadvantage
of the novel was the myopic picture of New York Jewish society presented by
Opatoshu, who introduced his readers only to ‘perplexed beings, Menachem
Mendel’s kind of speculators [an allusion to Sholem Aleichem’s hapless character
— G.E.] and Hasidic rabbis’. The critic admitted that Around Grand Street had a
captivating plot and was written by ‘a gifted literary hand’, but at the same time
very little could be learned from it about the reality of American life.59
In his rebuke, published in Di Vokh, Opatoshu essentially repeated Nusinov’s
argument: there was no need to publish his writings if they really did not
correspond with the Soviet criteria. Still, he called Epshtein ‘a shallow Marxist’
who rode his ‘class-conscious Pegasus’ and, while doing it, forgot about real life
and saw everything only through the prism of dialectical materialism. He also
reminded readers of Di Vokh that, as co-editor of the New York Frayhayt in its early
years, Epshtein used to have a different opinion about his writings and allowed the
communist newspaper’s critic Kalman Marmor to praise them.60
One would think that Epshtein, with his reputation of a founder, together with
Olgin, of the American Yiddish communist press and an editor of Soviet Yiddish
periodicals, could provide Opatoshu’s novels with a very strong ‘safeguard’. Yet,
Moshe Altshuler, a militant Soviet Jewish ideologist, attacked (in the Moscow
daily Der Emes on 22 October 1929) the decision to publish Opatoshu’s ‘clearly
harmful work’ with an ‘equally harmful’ introduction by Epshtein. Another Soviet
critic, A. R. Tsvayg, also criticized (in the Minsk daily Oktyabr on 18 August 1929)
Opatoshu’s work, emphasizing that Epshtein’s ‘mezuzah’, attached to the book, did
not make the novel less noxious.61 In the meantime, the Kiev publishing house
Kultur-Lige, one of the Sovietized remnants of the post-revolutionary Yiddish
cultural network, issued another novel by Opatoshu, 1863, also with Epshtein’s
introduction. On 18 January 1930, B. (only the initial is known) Marshak, the head
of the Kiev publishing house, wrote to Opatoshu that Epshtein’s introductions
played a significant role in the recent ‘stir’ in their literary circles.62
In 1931, Markish was happy to inform Opatoshu that ‘Shakhno’s nose had
been removed from Yiddish literature’.63 Epshtein, best known for his role as
secretary of the Jewish Antifascist Committee during the Second World War, cut
a shady figure, combining two careers — first, Yiddish man-of-letters and, second
(or perhaps first), a Comintern and Soviet intelligence agent. In the 1930s, he
represented the American Jewish communist press in Moscow and spent some time
abroad, working undercover in the United States.64
IV
Opatoshu and Epshtein certainly saw each other during the First Congress of Soviet
Writers in 1934, when Opatoshu one again visited the Soviet Union. For some
reason, perhaps because of the intrusion of Moshe Litvakov, editor of the central
Soviet Yiddish daily Der Emes (Truth), Opatoshu was not able to realize his plan of
coming on a return visit in 1931.65 Now he was welcomed at the railway station by
Markish and Bergelson. The latter had only recently settled in Moscow. A broader
circle of writers and critics, including Litvakov and Oyslender, came to a tea party
at the House of Writers opened early that year in an old mansion.66 The timing
of the trip could not be better: Opatoshu appeared as a guest during the First
Congress of Soviet Writers. To all appearances, it was a dizzy making experience.
At one of the receptions held in his honour in Moscow Opatoshu declared that ‘the
only hope for every true writer and artist is the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union
is our only light in the world’.67 For all that, Olgin, the editor of Frayhayt, did not
mention Opatoshu in his report on the congress. Rather, he emphasized the absence
of ‘leading revolutionary writers’, representing the United States.68 Apparently,
Opatoshu was to him neither revolutionary nor American enough.
Abraham Damesek, a Minsk Yiddish literary critic, interviewed Opatoshu on 1
August, when the Comintern propaganda machinery marked the International Day
of Struggle against Imperialist War. In this context, Damesek asked Opatoshu how
the American Jews would react in case of a war against the Soviet Union and was
happy to hear the New York writer’s estimate: 100 per cent of workers and 96 per
cent of intellectuals would support the Soviet Union. Opatoshu added:
I personally have already stated many times that my orientation is — the
working class, and that I am a friend of the USSR. This is the opinion of every
sincere and honest person: when you are in the Soviet Union, you feel yourself
as a Soviet citizen.
He told Damesek that the Soviet factor had strong inf luence on his creativity and
that he would have written his novel In Polish Woods and other works differently
48 Gennady Estraikh
now. Opatoshu welcomed the upgrade of Birobidzhan from a district into a region.
He meant the May 1934 decision to call the Far Eastern territory, allocated for
Jewish settlement, as the Jewish Autonomous Region.69
In 1934, Opatoshu also visited Poland and Palestine. Jewish life in Poland
saddened him immensely. This experience followed him, as we read, for instance, a
couple of years later in his open letter to Polish writers, in which he characterized
the situation of the Polish Jewish population as tragic, drawing a direct parallel
between the Polish nationalists and German fascists. (On 1 May 1936, Literaturnaia
gazeta, the central newspaper of the Soviet Writers’ Union, reprinted this letter.)70
Opatoshu’s scepticism about Palestine prompted the Zionist journalist Yeshayahu
Klinov to write an article, entitled ‘Why do they go away?’. Klinov did not limit
his analysis to Opatoshu and paid more attention to Bergelson, whom he knew
very well — both lived in Berlin until Hitler’s coming to power; Klinov then left
for Palestine, while Bergelson spent about a year in Copenhagen before settling
in the Soviet Union in May 1934. According to Klinov, desperation was the main
driving force for their ideological transformation. Depressingly, a Yiddish bestseller
had a print-run of 1,000 in Poland and the United States. Klinov detected two
— in his view paradoxical — phenomena among Yiddish intellectuals: first, their
fetishization of the language, though previously it was characteristic of the Hebraist
camp; second, their increased desire to find a territory where Yiddish could be
preserved and developed.71
Like many Jewish intellectuals, Opatoshu advocated productivization of the
Jewish population. In other words, he wanted to see Jews being actively involved
in industry and agriculture. As one of his characters stated, ‘My Yiddishkayt is
everything that is productive. It can be a kvutza [kibbutz] in the Land of Israel, a
Jewish collective farm in Birobidzhan or even in the Crimea’.72 In 1935, he became
a member of a committee that dealt with sending (and, in the event, failing to send)
a ‘people’s delegation’ to the Jewish Autonomous Region.73 In the meantime, his
Soviet colleagues encouraged him to participate in the Birobidzhan drive that in
the mid-1930s was showing some signs of morphing into a large-scale international
project. On 8 January 1935, Bergelson wrote to Opatoshu describing Birobidzhan
and its future as ‘one of the most important construction project in the Soviet
Union’.74 Markish, in his letter dated 6 July 1935, tried to convince Opatoshu to
move the Soviet Far East:
We are all waiting for you to come to us and settle here in Birobidzhan! That
would be an international sensation; we would also go. [...] Your plan to come
here in a few years to settle in Birobidzhan was received with tremendous
enthusiasm. Don’t abandon the idea.75
We also know that Opatoshu was thinking about sending his son, David, to
Moscow, to study at the Yiddish theatre school led by Solomon Mikhoels.76
In 1936, the New York journal Oyfkum (Rise) published an issue devoted to
Birobidzhan. Opatoshu wrote in it:
Birobidzhan begins to realize the most beautiful dream of Yiddish writers.
Most importantly, the Jewish life, the national Jewish life, is being transferred
under the authority of our people’s masses. And if we strive to revive our long-
suffering language, to bring the disused springs back to life, the Yiddish writer
has to be among the first re-settlers to Birobidzhan. It is wrong to think that
the writer’s role is limited to portraying the pioneer who transforms the desert
into a settlement. The writer is himself a pioneer. The real Yiddish writer, the one
of significance, must use his creative word to help turn the taiga into a place
populated by Jews. Bergelson has understood it and settled in Birobidzhan.
Let’s hope that other Yiddish writers will follow his example. The Yiddish
writers have to be the first to help build Birobidzhan, to make sure that the
Jewish Autonomous Region becomes very soon a Jewish socialist republic.77
Several months later, he wrote in that same journal:
I visited Jerusalem and I visited Moscow. Two worlds. Moscow or Jerusalem
— today it is the most important thing for all Jews. I am accused of advocating
for Moscow, because in Jerusalem there is no place for writers who write in
Yiddish. It’s not true. Parallels are not appropriate. Moscow wants to, and must,
solve the problem for the entire humanity, including Jews — hence Birobidzhan.
Palestine provides the solution to only part of the Jewish question. Every Jewish
community, and most particularly the one in Palestine, is dear to me. I have
no problem with Palestine’s desire to use Hebrew as the primary language and
to pursue the social revolution in this language. I am only against their ugly
attitude to Yiddish.78
In the mid-1930s, Opatoshu’s enthusiasm was reinforced by the promises of Soviet
officials to allow thousands of foreign Jews to settle in the Jewish Autonomous
Region. As it turned out, the whole campaign was a futile waste of time. Soviet
intellectuals also felt disenchanted — neither Bergelson nor any other prominent
writer had settled in Birobidzhan.
V
Nusinov’s 1934 article in the trend-setting Literary Encyclopedia stated that Opatoshu,
during his recent visit, ‘more resolutely emphasized his sympathies to the country
of soviets’.79 When Opatoshu returned to America after spending time among the
Soviet ‘engineers of human souls’ (a metaphor used by Stalin), he wrote about the
pointlessness of producing literature that could not leave an imprint in real life.
According to him, writers ought to see the direction in which life was developing,
and socialism certainly was the only right direction.80
The year 1935 saw the mobilization of writers into organizations linked with
the Comintern to fight against fascism. In April, the American Writers’ Congress
established the League of American Writers, which became affiliated with the
International Association of Writers for the Defence of Culture, formed at the
literary celebrity-studded congress in Paris in June 1935. Opatoshu participated in
the April congress and, together with two representatives of Yiddish communist
circles, Moshe Nadir and Moshe Olgin, was elected into the National Council
of the League of American Writers. Opatoshu did not speak during the congress,
while Nadir made a speech, explaining to the participants that Yiddish had ‘the
unique distinction of having been from its inception the language of the toiling
Jewish masses, as contrasted with the ancient Hebrew of the upper-class chauvinists,
50 Gennady Estraikh
or the “pure” German of the vulgar middle-class assimilationists’. According to

Nadir, American proletarian writers loved ‘America as one of the most beautiful
f lowers in the bouquet of the world Soviets of tomorrow’.81
An article by Ben Zion Goldberg, associate editor of Der tog (published on 30
August 1936), provides an insight into the mood of the newspaper’s writers, and
their reaction to the Moscow show trials of old Bolsheviks, dethroned heroes of
the revolution. Goldberg admitted that the trials had left a bad impression on him
and people around him. Yet, he reminded the readers that those who faced the trial
‘also did not belong to bale-rakhmones (merciful people)’ and ‘when they were in the
saddle, they also trampled many people’.82
In September 1937, Opatoshu was one of the main speakers at the World Yiddish
Cultural Congress, convened in Paris as a shadow of the grandiose 1935 Congress
in Defence of Culture. By that time, not only Yiddish and Yiddish culture were
at stake. Many people saw the Soviet Union as the foremost antagonist of fascism
and reaction. True, the congress delegates were disappointed that the Soviet party
leadership did not allow five Yiddish luminaries — David Bergelson, Itsik Fefer,
Izi Kharik, Moshe Litvakov, and Solomon Mikhoels — to take part in the forum.83
This list can be seen as an indication that in the first half of 1937 Markish was not
considered as one of the five most significant Soviet Yiddish cultural figures. The
situation changed in the coming months, when Kharik and Litvakov perished during
the purges, and Markish was elected (in fact, appointed) as the head of the Moscow
Yiddish section at the Writers’ Union. The minutes of the section’s meeting that
took place on 18 April 1938 ref lect the decision to ask the State Publishing House
to publish Russian translations of works by Nadir and Opatoshu.84 No doubt, both
writers’ membership in the League of American Writers played a role in this —
never realized — recommendation.
Comintern links of the 1937 congress were arch-important only for a minority of
its delegates. Much more significant were ideas of reviving the spirit of Kultur-Lige,
of protecting and developing progressive Yiddish culture under a supra-political and
transnational institutional umbrella, Yidisher Kultur Farband (YKUF), or Jewish
(Yiddish) Culture Organization. Opatoshu was elected as one of its vice-chairmen.
By the time or during the congress, Opatoshu came to the conclusion that Ashkenaz,
the habitat of the Yiddish-speaking civilization, did not exist as a geographic notion
any more. Rather, it had turned into an ideological virtual reality of Yiddishland.85
He realized, apparently, that the last real space, the Soviet one, was in a critical state.
Five empty chairs of Soviet delegates symbolized the loss of the Soviet dream. The
years 1937 and 1938 brought many disturbing news from the Soviet Union: the
failure of the Birobidzhan drive, the purges, the expulsion of the foreign Jewish
organizations, and the radical reduction of education in Yiddish.86 Still, he could
convince himself to believe that purges were necessary measures for protecting the
country from enemies, especially as Markish and Bergelson publicly, in Literaturnaia
gazeta on 1 February 1937, welcomed the show trials.
The Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, signed on 23 August 1939, was the last straw.
Opatoshu was among those non-communist members of YKUF, including its
chairman Chaim Zhitlowsky, who resigned in protest.87 Unlike Zhitlowsky and
some other activists, Opatoshu did not join pro-Soviet groupings during the Second
World War. Characteristically, Solomon Mikhoels and Itsik Fefer, who visited the
United States in 1943 as the delegation of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, had
been instructed in Moscow to avoid contacts with Opatoshu, ‘an enemy of the
Soviet Union’. In fact, Opatoshu boycotted the rallies, organized in honour of the
delegation, although Chagall encouraged him to greet the visitors.88 Yet, in 1945 he
renewed, after a six-year gap, his correspondence with his old fast friend Markish.89
During the post-Stalin period, Soviet literary specialists characterized Opatoshu
as a friend, not always a reliable one, but still a friend. The new edition of the
literary encyclopaedia stated that Opatoshu’s articles and stories were ‘full of deep
sympathy to the soviet country’.90 At the end of the day, it was a correct statement,
at least for the 1920s and 1930s.
Notes to Chapter 3
1. Quoted in Chaim (Herman) Lieberman, Sheydim in Moskve (New York, n.p.: 1937), pp. 114–
15.
2. Ruth R. Wisse, ‘Di Yunge: Immigrants or Exile’, Prooftexts 1 (1981), 46.
3. B. Vladeck, ‘Mayn harts iz in Amerika, mayn neshome iz in Rusland’, Forverts, 27 March 1917,
p. 3.
4. B. Vladeck, ‘Bibliografye’, Tsukunft 17 (1912), 846.
5. Abraham Cahan, The Rise of David Levinsky (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1917), p. 459.
6. ‘Khronik’, Literarishe bleter, 10 September 1929, p. 607.
7. Julian Levinson, Exiles on Main Street: Jewish American Writers and American Literary Culture
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008), p. 132.
8. Cf. A. Litvin, ‘Yidish, yidish, yidish: der kurs fun mame-loshn heybt zikh in Rusland’, Forverts,
2 July 1910, p. 5.
9. Asher Penn, ‘The First Quarter Century in the History of the Sholem Aleichem Schools’, in
Our First Fifty Years: The Sholem Aleichem Folk Institute, ed. by Saul Goodman (New York: The
Sholem Aleichem Folk Institute, 1972), p. 16.
10. Zalman Reisen, ‘Oyfn literatur-front’, Vilner tog, 31 January 1936, p. 4; Hasia Diner, In the Almost
Promised Land: American Jews and Blacks, 1915–1935 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1995), p. 35.
11. Shmuel Niger, ‘Der hoypt-tsil fun der kultur-lige’, Dos naye lebn 5 (1923), 1–4.
12. Jacob Pat, Shmuesn mit yidishe shrayber (New York: Y. Pat, 1954), p. 72.
13. Concerning the Kultur-Lige (Memorandum), 27 September 1922. American Jewish Joint
Distribution Committee’s Archive, item 333115, p. 4.
14. Nakhman Mayzel, Geven amol a lebn (Buenos Aires: Tsentral-farband fun poylishe yidn in
Argentine, 1951), pp. 37–39, 48–51; Hagit Cohen, ‘The USA-Eastern Europe Yiddish Book
Trade and the Formation of an American Yiddish Cultural Center, 1890s-1930s’, Jews in Russia
and Eastern Europe, 57 (2006), 69.
15. ‘Y. Opatoshu in Poyln’, Literarishe bleter, 1 June 1928, p. 415.
16. David Bergelson: From Modernism to Socialist Realism, ed. by Joseph Sherman and Gennady
Estraikh (Oxford: Legenda, 2007), p. 353.
17. Gennady Estraikh, In Harness: Yiddish Writers’ Romance with Communism (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse
University Press, 2005), pp. 78, 79; Gennady Estraikh, ‘David Bergelson in and on America’,
in David Bergelson: From Modernism to Socialist Realism, ed. by Joseph Sherman and Gennady
Estraikh (Oxford: Legenda, 2007), p. 208.
18. Yakov Shternberg, Vegn literatur un teater (Tel Aviv: H. Leivik, 1987), p. 131.
19. Estraikh, ‘David Bergelson in and on America’, pp. 210, 214, 215.
20. Benjamin Harshav, Marc Chagall and his Times: A Documentary Narrative (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2004), pp. 334–35.
52 Gennady Estraikh
21. Mayzel, Geven amol a lebn, pp. 289–90.

22. Wisse, ‘Di Yunge: Immigrants or Exile’, p. 52.
23. Nokhum Oyslender, ‘Himlloze kunst’, Shtrom, 3 (1922), 60–66.
24. Isaac Nusinov, ‘Der mishpet’, Af di vegn tsu der nayer shul, 4–5 (1924), 132–33.
25. Isaac Nusinov, ‘Af farfestikte pozitsyes’, Di royte velt, 9 (1926), 105–06.
26. Mordechai Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1979), pp.
251–52.
27. ‘Publishing House Kultur League, Warsaw. 27 September 1922’, American Jewish Joint
Distribution Archive’s Archive, item 333115, p. 3.
28. Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers, pp. 254, 292, 455.
29. See, e.g., Del’man (Iakov Eidel’man), ‘Soveshchanie evreiskikh pisatelei’, Literaturnaia gazeta, 15
March 1937, p. 4.
30. A-s, ‘Opatoshu-ovnt’, Oktyabr, 9 September 1928, pp. 3–4.
31. K. Nelson, ‘Der shrayber Y. Opatoshu tsu gast in Moskve’, Oktyabr, 4 September 1928, p. 2.
32. ‘A shmues mi Y. Opatoshu nokh zayn tsurikkumen fun ratnfarband’, Literarishe bleter, 14
September 1928, pp. 735–36.
33. Joseph Opatoshu, Gezamlte verk, xiii (Vilna: B. Kletskin, 1934), pp. 164, 167.
34. See Israel Joshua Singer, Nay-Rusland: bilder fun a rayze (Warsaw: Ch. Brzoza, 1939), pp. 29–35.
For Singer’s Soviet trip, see Gennady Estraikh, ‘The Old and the New Together: David
Bergelson’s and Israel Joshua Singer’s Portraits of Moscow Circa 1926–1927’, Prooftexts, 26 (2006),
53–78.
35. ‘The Work of the Joint Distribution Committee in the Field of Agricultural Reconstruction.
15 May 1923’, American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee’s Archive, item 353257, p. 5. See
also Gennady Estraikh, ‘Pig-breeding, Shiksas, and Other Goyish Themes in Soviet Yiddish
Literature and Life’, Symposium, 57 (2003), 157–74.
36. Opatoshu, Gezamlte verk, xiii, 181–87, 231–32.
37. Ibid., pp. 183, 192, 250–53. Over 300 children studied at that time in the Minsk heders — see
Elissa Bemporad, ‘Red Star on the Jewish Street: The Reshaping of Jewish Life in Soviet Minsk,
1917–1939’, PhD dissertation, Stanford University (2006), p. 136.
38. Joseph Opatoshu, Hibru (New York: Max N. Maisel, 1920), p. 205.
39. Joseph Opatoshu, Gezamlte verk, xii (Vilna: B. Kletskin, 1931), pp. 68–73, 117–21.
40. Daniel Soyer, ‘Back to the Future: American Jews Visit the Soviet Union in the 1920s and 1930s’,
Jewish Social Studies, 6 (2000), 132.
41. Estraikh, ‘The Old and the New Together’, p. 58; Gennady Estraikh, ‘Y. Y. Zingers “histerye”,
oder a fusnote tsu an ander artikl’, Forverts, 22 December 2006, pp. 12–13.
42. Joseph Opatoshu’s Papers, YIVO Archive, RG436, box 2, file 120.
43. Estraikh, In Harness, p. 97.
44. Ruth R. Wisse, ‘Two Jews Talking: A View of Modern Yiddish Literature’, Prooftexts, 4 (1984),
41.
45. Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers, p. 279.
46. Ibid., p. 291. See also Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Rishes’, Der oyfkum, October–November (1930), 3–8.
48. Estraikh, In Harness, pp. 129, 130. The English translation of the story came out under the title
‘The Worker’s Club’, see From Revolution to Repression: Soviet Yiddish Writing 1917–1952, ed. by
Joseph Sherman (Nottingham: Five Leaves Publications, 2012), pp. 91–146.
50. A. A. Slezin, ‘Voinstvuiushchii ateizm v SSSR vo vtoroi polovine 1920-kh godov’, Voprosy
istorii, 9 (2005), 129–36.
51. The story first appeared in Der tog on 26 January 1929 and was reprinted in Opatoshu, Gezamlte
verk, xii, 7–20.
52. Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers, pp. 356–63.
53. The life of miners was a popular subject at that time: in 1930, the Kiev publishing house Kultur-
Lige produced Der Nister’s translation of Emil Zola’s novel Germinal, entitled Koylngreber in
Yiddish; in 1931, the Moscow publishing house Der Emes brought out Meir Alberton’s Soviet
Yiddish novel Shakhtes (Mines). Opatoshu’s story Lyntsheray was first published in 1915, the
year when Leo Frank, a Jewish superintendent of a factory, was lynched by a mob in Marietta,
Georgia, after being wrongly convicted of killing a teenage girl. See Eric J. Sundquist, Strangers
in the Land: Blacks, Jews, Post-Holocaust America (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
2005), p. 27.
54. Maxim Gorky, O literature: stat´i i rechi 1928–1936 (Moscow: Sovetskii pisatel´, 1937), p. 81. The
second edition of Nusinov’s translation of In Polish Woods came out in Moscow as late as 2011 in
the series ‘Prose of Jewish life’ of the publishing house Text.
55. Gennady Estraikh, ‘Soviet Sholem Aleichem’, in Translating Sholem Aleichem: History, Politics and
Art, ed. by Gennady Estraikh and others (Oxford: Legenda, 2012), pp. 62–82.
56. Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers, pp. 356–63.
57. Ezekiel Lifschutz, ‘Briv fun yidishe shrayber’, in Pinkes far der forshung fun der yidisher literatur
un prese, ed. by Shlomo Bikl (New York: Congress for Jewish Culture, 1965), p. 325. Chaim
Lieberman, a Forverts journalist, used ‘Yekl Shapshovitsh’s brothel’ as a metonymy for the
‘united front’ of communists and socialists — see Lieberman, Sheydim in Moskve, p. 84.
58. Arlen V. Blium, Sovetskaia tsenzura v epokhu total’nogo terrora, 1929–1953 (St Petersburg: Akad
emicheckii proekt, 2000), p. 165.
59. Shakhno Epshtein, ‘Forvort’, in Arum grend-strit by Joseph Opatoshu (Kharkov: Tsentralfarlag:
1929), p. 6.
60. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Hekhsheyrim: an ofener briv tsu Shakhne Epshteyn’, Di Vokh, 18 October
1929, p. 12.
61. Lifschutz, ‘Briv fun yidishe shrayber’, pp. 328, 329.
62. Joseph Opatoshu’s Papers, YIVO Archive, RG436, box 4, file 150.
64. Gennady Estraikh, ‘Shakhne Epshteyn — a mentsh a retenish’, Forverts, 30 March 2012,
pp. 12–13.
65. Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers, pp. 362–63; Lifschutz, ‘Briv fun yidishe shrayber’,
p. 343.
66. Nakhman Mayzel, Dos yidishe shafn un der yidisher shrayber in Sovetnfarband (New York: YKUF,
1959), p. 148.
67. Yehuda Slutsky, ‘Jews at the First Congress of Soviet Writers’, Soviet Jewish Affairs, 2 (1972), 64.
68. Moissaye J. Olgin, ‘A Pageant of Soviet Literature: The All-Union Writers’ Congress in
Moscow’, New Masses, 16 October 1934, p. 20.
69. Abraham Damesek, ‘A shmues mint amerikanish-yidishn shrayber Y. Opatoshu’, Oktyabr, 20
July 1934, p. 3.
70. ‘Da zdravstvuet svobodnoe chelovechestvo! Otkrytoe pis’mo pol’skim pisateliam’, Literaturnaia
gazeta, 1 May 1936, p. 3.
71. Yeshayahu Klinov, ‘Farvos geyen zey avek?’, Der yidisher kemfer, 16 November 1934, pp. 8–10.
72. Joseph Opatoshu, Tsvishn yamen un lender: a rayze keyn Eretz-Yisroyel (Warsaw: Literarishe bleter,
1937), pp. 30, 31.
73. Henry F. Srebrnik, Dreams of Nationhood: American Jewish Communists and the Soviet Birobidzhan
Project, 1924–1951 (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2010), p. 55.
74. Estraikh, ‘Bergelson in and on America’, p. 215.
75. Boris Kotlerman, ‘“Why I am in Favor of Birobidzhan?”: Bergelson’s Fateful Decision’, in David
Bergelson: From Modernism to Socialist Realism, ed. by Joseph Sherman and Gennady Estraikh
(Oxford: Legenda, 2007), p. 226.
77. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Briv in redaktsye’, Oyfkum, July–August (1936), 30.
78. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Opatoshu vegn zikh’, Oyfkum, November–December (1936), 16.
79. Isaac Nusinov, ‘Opatoshu’, Literaturnaia entsiklopediia, viii (Moscow: OGIZ, 1934), pp. 303–04.
80. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Arum proletarisher literatur’, Signal, May (1935), 24, 25.
81. American Writers’ Congress, ed. by Henry Hart (New York: International Publishers, 1935),
pp. 153–56.
82. Quoted in Ben Zion Goldberg, Yidn in ratn-farband: zeyer lage, zeyere problemen, zeyer tsukunft (Tel
Aviv: Y. L. Peretz Farlag, 1963), p. 32.
83. Estraikh, In Harness, p. 100.
54 Gennady Estraikh
84. Materialy i perepiska po evreiskoi literature, 1938. RGALI, fond 631, opis 6, edinitsa khraneniia 251,
list l. 9
85. Ershter alveltlekher yidisher kultur-kongres (New York: YKUF, 1937), p. 26; Matthew Hoffman,
‘From Czernowitz to Paris: The International Yiddish Culture Congress of 1937’, in Czernowitz
at 100: The First Yiddish Language Conference in Historical Perspective, ed. by Kalman Weiser and
Joshua A. Fogel (Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, 2010), pp. 160–61.
86. See, e.g., Gennady Estraikh, ‘Yiddish Language Conference Aborted’, East European Jewish
Affairs, 25 (1995), 91–96; Viacheslav Selimenev and Arkadii Zeltser, ‘The Jewish Intelligentsia
and the Liquidation of Yiddish Schools in Belorussia, 1938’, Jews in Eastern Europe, 3 (2000),
78–97; Mikhail Mitsel, ‘The Final Chapter: Agro-Joint Workers — Victims of the Great Terror
in the USSR, 1937–40’, East European Jewish Affairs, 39.1 (2009), 76–99; Alexander Ivanov,
‘Facing East: The World ORT Union and the Jewish Refugee Problem in Europe, 1933–38’,
East European Jewish Affairs, 39 (2009), 369–88.
87. Matthew Hoffman, ‘The Red Divide: The Conf lict between Communists and their Opponents
in the American Yiddish Press’, American Jewish History, 96 (2010), 29.
88. Stalin’s Secret Pogrom: The Postwar Inquisition of the Jewish Anti-fascist Committee, ed. by Joshua
Rubenstein and Vladimir P. Naumov (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), pp. 16, 138,
344–45.
89. ‘Briv fun Perets Markish’, Zamlbikher, 8 (1952), 112.
90. Moisei Belenkii, ‘Opatoshu’, Kratkaia literaturnaia entsiklopediia, v (Moscow: Sovetskaia
entsiklopediia, 1968), p. 446.
Chapter 4
v
Faint Praise: The Early Critical Reception

of Joseph Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder
Ellen Kellman
Yoysef Opatoshu died in 1954 after a long and productive career as a fiction writer
and activist in the worldwide Yiddish cultural movement. His novels and short
stories have been largely ignored by scholars and translators during the past six
decades, however, and have fallen into obscurity. An examination of the early
critical reception of Opatoshu’s masterwork In poylishe velder (In Polish Woods), first
published in New York by Farlag Maks N. Mayzel in 1921, might shed light on
some of the reasons why awareness of his contributions has diminished, and might
help lay the groundwork for an effort to redefine his place in the modern Yiddish
canon.
Opatoshu’s Early Fiction and its Critical Reception
Opatoshu immigrated to the United States from Poland in 1907 and debuted as a
writer of Yiddish short fiction in November 1910 with the story ‘Fun yener zayt
brik’ (From the Far Side of the Bridge) in the second volume of the anthology
Literatur (Literature), edited by Dovid Ignatov and Y. Y. Shvarts, and went on to
publish hundreds of stories in the American Yiddish periodical press throughout
his lifetime. Literatur (and several other anthologies in which Opatoshu’s early
works appeared) was a publication of the literary group known as Di Yunge
(The Young Generation). Most writers associated with Di Yunge were factory
workers or artisans, and identified as socialists. They celebrated individual vision
and expression in art, however, and thus rejected the politically inspired verse of
the ‘labour’ or ‘sweatshop’ poets, whose poetics they regarded as outmoded. The
sweatshop poets, who had been versifying about the struggles of Jewish immigrants
in America since the 1880s, in turn criticized the aestheticism and lack of social
engagement of Di Yunge.
Several of Opatoshu’s longer works were serialized in newspapers and literary
magazines before they appeared in book form. In 1912, his novella A roman fun a
ferd-ganev (Romance of a Horse Thief ) appeared in the ‘Yunge’ anthology Shriftn
(Writings), edited by Dovid Ignatov. The 1913 edition of Shriftn carried Opatoshu’s
story ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ (Morris and his Son Phillip). In A Little Love in
Big Manhattan, her study of two major poets of Di Yunge, Ruth Wisse observes
aesthetic differences in these works which indicate that Opatoshu had moved away
56 Ellen Kellman
from the poetics of the movement by 1913. Although both works portray the Jewish
underworld, the first ‘suited the neoromantic outlook of Shriftn’, while in ‘Moris
un zayn zun Filip’, Opatoshu wrote ‘as a naturalist presenting the human animal in
his physical habitat’.1
By 1914, Opatoshu had, with Yoysef Rolnik, Y. Y. Shvarts, Yoyl Slonim, and M.
Y. Khayemovitsh, broken artistic ties with Di Yunge, producing a new anthology,
entitled ‘Di naye heym’ (The New Home). Opatoshu’s novella Fun Nyu-yorker geto
(From the New York Ghetto), another tale peopled by underworld characters,
appeared there.
Discussing the development of Shriftn in an interview published in the Warsaw
literary journal Bikher-velt (Book World) in May 1922, Opatoshu rationalized both
his involvement and eventual departure from the Shriftn group. He asserted that
the anthology ‘did not represent a strictly consistent literary school’, but rather
concerned itself with ‘fresh, vital expression and artistic aspiration’. Shriftn had
‘united its contributors around their dissatisfaction with earlier literature and
their desire to separate themselves from older writers’. Because of its aestheticism,
however, ‘the group remained isolated from the main body of Yiddish readers’.2
Thus, in the course of time, the contributors to Shriftn split over aesthetic concerns:
‘A natural differentiation came about. Some of the more realistic writers, the
neorealists, produced the anthology Di naye heym, and the abstract-romantic writers
remained with Shriftn’.3
Opatoshu was a regular contributor of short fiction to the New York daily Der
tog (Day) from its inception in November 1914. Der tog was founded for the express
purpose of providing a politically moderate, independent, high-quality alternative
to the other Yiddish dailies appearing in New York at the time, especially the
socialist Forverts (Forward), edited by Abraham Cahan. (Though it was the most
widely read Yiddish newspaper, Forverts was broadly criticized for its sensationalistic
style of journalism, for impeding the intellectual development of its readership
by publishing a preponderance of entertaining features and lowbrow fiction, and
for failing to encourage the growth of Yiddish literature by supporting young
writers.)
Opatoshu’s contributions of short fiction to Der tog provided a steady income,
which enabled him to devote much of his time to writing novels. None were
serialized in the newspaper, however. According to the Opatoshu Bibliography,
published by Branch 639 of Arbeter-Ring in 1937, a total of fourteen chapters of
his novel Hibru (Hebrew Teachers) appeared in Der tog in 1914, 1917, and 1918.
One chapter of 1863 was printed there in 1915, along with three additional ones in
1917. The only other Opatoshu novel represented in the paper was Di tentserin (The
Dancer), with one chapter in 1917.
The first of Opatoshu’s works to be published in book form was the novella Fun
Nyu-Yorker geto, which came out in 1914, followed by Romance of a Horse Thief in
1917.4 Two full-length novels, Aleyn (Alone, 1919) and Hibru (1920), and a collection
of short stories entitled Untervelt (Underworld, 1919) followed.5 Aleyn had been
serialized in the monthly magazine Tsukunft (Future) as Roman fun a vald meydl
(Romance of a Forest Girl) in 1918.
Faint Praise 57
While early versions of several of Opatoshu’s other novels had appeared in

periodicals, this was only minimally true in the case of In poylishe velder. Although
an early version of the first section of the novel had appeared in the Labour Zionist
weekly Der yidisher kemfer (The Jewish Fighter) in 1915,6 almost six years elapsed
before the finished work was published, so the story could hardly have been fresh
in the minds of readers.
More than a decade elapsed between Opatoshu’s debut in Literatur and the
publication of In poylishe velder, during which time critics writing in such inf luential
American Yiddish periodicals as Fraye arbeter shtime (Free Voice of Labour), Tsukunft,
and Di naye velt (The New World) published encouraging reviews of the young
writer’s work. For instance, the anonymous critic D.B., reviewing the first volume
of Shriftn in Fraye arbeter shtime in 1913, devoted the major portion of his article to
Romance of a Horse Thief:
No one who reads this novella can deny that J. Opatoshu has an inborn talent
for storytelling. He has a tale to tell, and he does so in a lively and interesting
way. In addition, this is a story about a milieu which is almost unknown to
lovers of literature. [...] When an author is able to make his readers believe in
the authenticity of his story, we can say for sure that [...] writing comes to him
naturally. And this, as a matter of fact, is the true characteristic of the artist.7
Borekh Rivkin reviewed Di naye heym in Tsukunft in 1914, commenting extensively
on Opatoshu’s second novella, Fun Nyu-yorker geto. Although he found fault with the
narrative construction of the story, like D.B. in Fraye arbeter shtime, he emphasized
Opatoshu’s talent and promise as a writer:
One would be unjust to young writers if one were to liken defects in the syuzhet
(narrative construction of a fictional work) to defects in their talent. Syuzhet
is a technical matter, over which the story’s characters take precedence. The
greatest evidence of talent is that the characters are portrayed so vividly that one
can see their shadows, exactly as with living beings. And this can be said with
certainty about Opatoshu’s characters.8
In 1915, Moissaye Olgin reviewed both of Opatoshu’s novellas in the socialist
weekly Di naye velt. In comparing Opatoshu’s underworld fictions to those of Sho
lem Asch, he remarked on the absence of an ideological underpinning in Opatoshu’s
writing:
The similarity between Motke ganev and Opatoshu’s characters notwithstanding,
Motke seems to embody a certain social idea and pose a social question.
Opatoshu asks no questions [...] and defines no problems. He ignores all national
dramas and sorrows. He relates his stories because they interest him, because he
wants us to know what remarkable individuals there are in the world.9
Olgin went on to argue that the purity of Opatoshu’s literary realism enhanced
the riveting style of storytelling for which he was becoming known. He had read
Romance of a Horse Thief with total absorption, and found Fun nyu-yorker geto even
more gripping. Summing up, Olgin praised Opatoshu’s work as ‘full of action,
movement, transformation and unexpected ideas. [...] In this respect, he has no
equal among Yiddish writers. Perhaps only Sholem Aleichem has been able to
capture the reader’s interest as much’.10
58 Ellen Kellman
Writing in Tsukunft in 1918, Hillel Rogoff was perhaps the first to critique In
poylishe velder, albeit only the early version of the first section of the novel, which
had appeared in Der yidisher kemfer in 1915. He expressed great excitement about the
work, especially because it was, as he saw it, ‘perhaps the first historical novel in
Yiddish literature’. He praised Opatoshu’s handling of the mystical and folkloristic
elements in the work, both Jewish and pagan, concluding that although Opatoshu
was just at the beginning of his work in the genre, he possessed ‘the essential
capability to create great works of this type’.11
The Publication History of In poylishe velder

Because of his prolific literary activity beginning in 1910 and the critical notice he
had received in the American Yiddish press, Opatoshu’s name was already quite
well known to readers of Yiddish in America when In poylishe velder appeared in
book form. His work had been reviewed in a few periodicals published in Poland
and pre-Soviet Russia, but he was little known among the Yiddish reading public
in Eastern Europe.12 In light of this, it was fortuitous that the newly established
Warsaw publishing house Farlag Kultur-Lige requested that Opatoshu authorize
a reprinting of In poylishe velder just months after it appeared in the United States.
Nakhmen Mayzil, one of the managers of the publishing house, explained how this
came about in his memoir Geven a mol a lebn (Once There was a Life).
Mayzil and four other cultural activists (Moyshe Zilberfarb, Yoysef Leshtshinski,
Zelig Melamed, and Kh. Sh. Kazdan) had arrived in Warsaw as political refugees
from Kiev early in 1921.13 They had been members of the Central Committee of the
organization Kultur-Lige (Culture League) there. Founded in 1918, during the brief
period in which ethnic minorities were granted cultural autonomy in revolutionary
Ukraine, Kultur-Lige was expressly umparteyish, i.e. not affiliated with any political
party, and professed the general goal of fostering an international movement to
promote Yiddish culture.14 During the two and a half years of its existence, the
organization established a wide network of cultural institutions throughout the
country. In late 1920, having gained control of Ukraine, the Soviet government
removed the non-Communist members of the Kultur-Lige’s Central Committee
from office, and early in 1921 the entire organization was closed down.15 Arriving
in Warsaw, the leadership group, headed by Zilberfarb, set about the difficult task
of transplanting the organization. With borrowed funds, they re-established the
group’s publishing house, Farlag Kultur-Lige, bringing out seventy books in its first
year of operation alone. Mayzil and Zelig Melamed managed the business, making
choices about what works to publish based on Kultur-Lige’s broad goal of creating
a transnational Yiddishist movement.
The First World War, the Russian Revolution, and the subsequent wars over the
borders of new states had vitiated cultural contact between Jewish communities
in Eastern Europe and other parts of the world. Aware that there were talented
young modernists, virtually unknown in Poland, who were writing in Yiddish in
America, Mayzil was eager to re-establish contact between the two communities
by publishing some of their works. (Having edited the European section of Literatur
Faint Praise 59
un lebn (Literature and Life), another ‘Yunge’ publication, in 1913, Mayzil was well
acquainted with pre-war literary activity in New York.) He explains his impatience
to renew these ties in Geven a mol a lebn:
We were striving to create a worldwide Yiddish cultural movement out of
the Kultur-Lige, and so, from the very beginning, we set ourselves the goal
of including in our circle of inf luence writers and artists, and also the Jewish
masses, in countries where we were active. And we gave top priority to writers
from the United States. From a distance, we were aware that important Yiddish
writers had appeared in America during the war years, and had published
significant works. We had fallen out of touch with one another because of
the war. (This was especially true for those of us in Russia.) So Melamed
and I, without checking with the leadership of the organization, contacted J.
Opatoshu and H. Leivick in a rush. We had heard about their two important
works, In poylishe velder and Der goylem (The Golem), and we proposed that they
give us the rights to reprint them in Poland.16
Opatoshu agreed immediately, but Moyshe Zilberfarb, the doyen of the organization,
was not eager to take on an additional financial obligation, especially since the two
authors were unknown to him. Mayzil and Melamed eventually persuaded him to
allow them to publish the works, arguing that by including American writers on
Kultur-Lige’s list, they would strengthen the publishing house, open doors to the
Yiddish literary scene in America and introduce little-known works to the reading
public in Poland. Zilberfarb assented on condition that the two managers assume
the financial risk themselves. Apparently suspicious that Mayzil’s decision had
been entirely impulsive, Zilberfarb looked at him over his pince-nez and asked,
‘Nakhmen, have you at least read the works? Are they worth publishing?’17
As it turned out, Mayzil’s risky venture proved successful. In poylishe velder became
an instant shlager (hit) with the Yiddish reading public in Poland, selling out the first
1922 printing of 3,500 copies. It was reprinted ten times within two years, for a total
of 15,000 copies.18 After Farlag Kultur-Lige went bankrupt in 1924, ten additional
printings of the novel, totalling 12,000 copies, were made under the auspices of the
Kletskin Farlag, which was then managed by Mayzil. In contrast to these impressive
figures, the first American edition of the novel comprised only 1,500 copies. A
second American edition, totalling 2,500 copies, was published by Farlag R. Y.
Novak in 1947. These statistics reveal only part of the novel’s publication history,
however. Many details are not verifiable because publishing records have been lost.
For instance, although the copyright page of the Kultur-Lige edition of the novel
specified that marketing of the book in the United States was prohibited, the fact
that many copies eventually turned up in private collections in North America leads
one to conclude that it actually was sold there. Additionally, since In poylishe velder
was known in the Soviet Union but not reprinted there (as most of Opatoshu’s other
works were), we may surmise that the Polish edition was also exported there. The
fact that the novel was not serialized either in Europe or the United States suggests
that Opatoshu and the publisher had decided to maximize book sales, which would
certainly have been diminished had the novel been made available in the periodical
press. Opatoshu did authorize a serialization of In poylishe velder in Polish translation.
It appeared in the Polish-Jewish periodical Nasz Przegląd (Our Review) in 1923.
60 Ellen Kellman
Early Critical Responses to In poylishe velder

Reviews by thirteen critics were selected for this survey.
In order to represent the initial critical response to the novel, with three
exceptions (Yankev Shatski’s 1926 review of 1863,19 Maks Erik’s 1928 review ‘Yoysef
Opatoshus trilogye’ [ Joseph Opatoshu’s Trilogy],20 and Shakhne Epshteyn’s 1929
foreword to the Kiev Farlag Kultur-Lige’s edition of 186321), the selection was
limited to reviews published within two years of the release of the first American
edition of In poylishe velder.
Positive views
Twelve of the thirteen critics included in this survey were generally unanimous
in their praise for certain qualities of the novel. First and foremost, they admired
its massive scale and hailed it as a major milestone and achievement for Yiddish
literature. Writing in the daily Tsayt (Time) in August 1921, Borekh Rivkin stated:
‘The novel In poylishe velder is a historical monument that stands almost entirely alone
in Yiddish literature’.22 He went on to say that not every novelist was equipped to
take on such a project: ‘One needs to be a born architect [...] and possess education
[and] intelligence that surpasses that of the average Yiddish writer’.23 Shmuel Niger,
writing in Der tog in May of the same year, lauded the great promise of the novel
with respect to the future development of Yiddish belles-lettres: ‘In poylishe velder
represents a higher rung, a step upward toward the kind of monumental work that
is yet to be achieved [in Yiddish literature]. [The novel] has great scope and breadth,
which deserves to be recognized before all else.’ 24
Arn Glants, writing in Fraye arbeter shtime in April 1921, and Hersh-Dovid
Nomberg, writing in Bikher-velt in March 1922, used similar laudatory language.
Glants wrote that the work represented ‘perhaps the greatest scope that a Yiddish
writer has ever dared to undertake’. Nomberg praised Opatoshu for having
‘approached the writing of the novel with complete awareness of the difficulty of
the task, and prepared himself well, as if he were about to climb a tall mountain’.25
Predicting that his fellow critics would disagree about many aspects of the novel,
Hillel Rogoff wrote in Forverts: ‘The novel as a whole will undoubtedly, however,
be recognized as one of the most beautiful and sublime works that American
Yiddish literature has created’.26 In his 1928 review, Maks Erik declared: ‘In reading
In poylishe velder, the Yiddish reader for the first time sensed the full-blooded,
natural-born novelist and, for the first time, held in his hands not a Yiddish novel,
but the Yiddish novel’.27
Many critics were impressed with the extent of research that Opatoshu had
conducted and the rich historical context he created. For instance, in reviewing the
novel in Fraye arbeter shtime in July 1921, Moyshe Katz noted:
Opatoshu put a lot of [...] conscious, attentive research into this novel. The
characters, the external events, often the names, places and the entire locale
are historically correct, almost as faithfully portrayed as in a documentary
treatment. One can boldly assert that Opatoshu’s novel is the first and only
historical novel that we as yet have in our literature.28
Faint Praise 61
‘Opatoshu in Poland’. Unsigned cartoon

from the American Yiddish humour
magazine Der groyser kundes (The Big
Prankster), 28 April 1922. The cartoon
appeared shortly after In poylishe velder
was published by Farlag Kultur-Lige, and
while Opatoshu was visiting Poland on his
first reading tour. The cartoonist suggests
that there are inaccuracies in the author’s
portrayal of his subject. Opatoshu holds a
copy of the novel and comments: ‘a shod,
vos di velder hobn nit geleyent mayn bukh.
loyt mayn shilderung, voltn zey gor andersh
gevoksn!’ (It’s a shame that the forests
haven’t read my book. As I portrayed them,
they would have grown quite differently!)
Opatoshu was praised for tackling the long-forgotten subjects of the decline of
peaceful Jewish–Christian coexistence and of the inf luence of Hasidic thought on
Polish intellectuals. Moyshe Katz said of the former: ‘In the Polish forests, where
the unity of the Jewish and Polish peoples came into existence historically, this same
unity disintegrated along with the internal dissolution of each of the two peoples’.29
Rivkin wrote of the latter subject: ‘[It is] remarkable that none of the Yiddish
writers in Poland realized that a great historic work on this theme was begging to
be written, but from a distance, from America, Opatoshu recognized it’.30
Several critics expressed delight at the richly wrought scenes involving groups
of people that they found in the novel. Shmuel Niger wrote: ‘The scenes involving
groups of people are portrayed with a masterful certainty and concentration. The
artist’s will is incarnate in them’.31 Hillel Rogoff ’s enthusiasm was even greater:
‘The sketches in the wagon on the journey to visit the rebbe (Hasidic master) and
in the courtyard while his followers wait for him contain masterful descriptions,
which can be compared to famous group scenes in world literature’.32
62 Ellen Kellman
Shortcomings
In spite of the laudatory tone that most reviewers took, their criticisms of the novel
were many, and overshadowed some of the praise.
Writing in Bikher-velt, the distinguished historian Meyer Balaban called attention
to inaccuracies in Opatoshu’s use of historical material. Balaban pointed out that
Opatoshu made changes in time and place. He assumed that the author did so for
the sake of making the protagonist’s spiritual odyssey fit plausibly into the novel’s
plot, but insisted that: ‘To be sure, there are boundaries that the novelist must not
violate, [and] J. Opatoshu has stretched these historical boundaries with respect to
time and place as far as possible’.33 According to Balaban, the rebbe of Kotsk actually
died in the winter of 1859, two years before the time period portrayed in the final
chapters of the novel, and the religious processions that led to confrontations with
Cossacks in fact took place in Warsaw, not in the vicinity of Kotsk.34 Balaban
noticed a variety of other fictionalizations as well. For example, he knew of no
evidence that orgies such as those Opatoshu described at the home of Reb Daniel
Eybeshits took place in Hasidic communities during the nineteenth century. In
Balaban’s view, Opatoshu had allowed himself to be carried along by a series of
associated ideas to the point where ‘he transposed acts that took place during the
time of Frank in the 18th century to Kotsk a century later and revealed them to
his protagonist Mordkhe’.35 Apart from these and other anachronisms, Balaban
praised Opatoshu’s characterizations as ‘masterfully portrayed and psychologically
well grounded’.36
A major shortcoming, which mystified and vexed a number of the critics, was
found in Opatoshu’s characterization of the protagonist Mordkhe. While they
admired Opatoshu for daring to compose such a large-scale work, they were
disappointed that his main character failed to bring sufficient coherence to the
novel’s disparate themes. Shmuel Niger wrote:
The author should have shown us Mordkhe’s development, his transformation
from one state of being into another, but he is poor in artistic f lesh and blood.
[...] we see the links in his chain of life, but we do not see how they link
together.37
Leo Kenig’s complaint was not unlike Niger’s:
Mordkhe was supposed to be the synthetic character in the novel. [...] We see
how the many inf luences on him manifest themselves, but we do not see how
he absorbs them. [...] Mordkhe is purely [a collection of ] inf luences. He has not
found himself.38
Hersh-Dovid Nomberg expressed his disappointment in Opatoshu’s portrayal of
Mordkhe similarly:
Mordkhe, the central figure in the novel, is portrayed in a profusion of words,
experiences and episodes, [...] and with this wealth of colours [...] we don’t
perceive his inner being — not even his visage is clearly apparent.39
Hillel Rogoff found Mordkhe’s role in the final section of the novel entirely
unconvincing:
Faint Praise 63
Mordkhe has been more of a thinker than an activist all along. [...] And suddenly
he is transformed into a kind of Jesus-figure, who sets out to preach revolution
in the villages and urge the masses to take revenge and shed blood.40
In a review of 1863 that appeared in Fraye arbeter shtime in 1926, the historian Yankev
Shatski offered a different interpretation of Opatoshu’s handling of Mordkhe as
he appears in In poylishe velder. Acknowledging contemporary modernist experi
mentation in fiction and cinema, he wrote:
It is not Mordkhe who creates the epoch. On the contrary, the epoch fashions
him. [...] One may not agree with the use of such a technique in a novel, but
it is interesting [and] very modern. It reminds me of good, lavishly episodic
films, with a colourful gallery of characters who appear fully formed, vivid and
burnished, wearing their distinctive garb. But they soon disappear from the
scene, making room for new and different characters.41
Leo Kenig criticized Opatoshu’s portrayals of di groyse yidn (the major Jewish
figures) — Reb Mendl of Kotsk, Reb Itshe the kabbalist, and Barefoot Yisrul —
even more sharply:
di groyse yidn are far beyond Opatoshu’s abilities. Even his language and style
fail to dress them up when he attempts to depict them. And the result is that
he only repeats what he has heard about them. He has not observed them
artistically.42
In Kenig’s view, the great popularity of the novel was due mainly to the ‘wonderful
material’ (i.e. Hasidic folklore and legends) that Opatoshu had assembled in the
novel.43
Other critics were less harsh in their assessments of Opatoshu’s portrayal of the
Hasidic and maskilic figures in the novel, yet each faulted his characterizations in
one way or another. Shmuel Niger, for example, commented:
The only successful ones among these characters are those who are uncomplicated,
such as Itshe, Yisrul and Reb Dovid — they appear lifelike. [...] But the more
intricate ones, especially Reb Mendele himself, are indistinct. Opatoshu is
better equipped to depict outcomes than interior processes.44
Communist critics found In poylishe velder lacking in class consciousness. Writing
in the Moscow journal Shtrom (Current) in 1922, Nokhem Oyslender remarked
that the scepticism he found in In poylishe velder was likely to be ‘a slap in the face
of the powerful convictions of our youthful artistic movement, which is faithful
to the times’.45 In assessing the novel in his foreword to the Soviet edition of 1863,
Shakhne Epshteyn declared: ‘Opatoshu endeavours to be faithful to history [...] but
he overlooks the essential element — the class background of the epoch’.46 Thus, he
concluded, the work did not succeed in correctly presenting historical reality.
Maks Erik took a different critical approach. Writing in 1928 in the Kharkov
literary monthly Di yidishe velt (The Yiddish World), he asserted that In poylishe
velder suffered from the inf luence of the neo-romantic Young Poland movement,
especially Stefan Zeromski’s novel Popioli (Ashes), and from the novels of Sholem
Asch, especially Dos shtetl, Shloyme noged and his historical novels. According to
Erik, the depressive inf luence of Young Poland ‘was fatal’ to In poylishe velder.47 For
64 Ellen Kellman
him, only the sections of the novel that dealt with Reb Mendele and the decline of
khsides (Hasidic cultural life) could comprise a unified literary work, but their unity
was marred by the final chapters in the second and third parts of the novel, which
portray the interactions of the Jewish and Polish intelligentsia.48
Among the thirteen critics surveyed, Hillel Rogoff was one of the most
wholehearted in his approbation of In poylishe velder, but he still expressed certain
reservations about it. For instance, he had high praise for Opatoshu’s portrayal of
the tensions between peasants and landowners, but concluded that ‘these portraits
are masterful in and of themselves, but they are not well integrated into the design
of the entire work’.49
Rogoff ’s enthusiasm stands in stark contrast to the reaction of his editor, Ab.
Cahan, whose review of In poylishe velder was by far the most condemnatory of all.
Even the title of the review, ‘In poylishn veldl’ (In a Little Polish Forest), which
altered the title of the novel, showed a lack of respect for Opatoshu. (It must be
said that Cahan’s critiques of literature were rarely taken seriously by those outside
his immediate sphere. He was well known for panning works by writers whose
approach differed from his own rather old-fashioned realist poetics, or who were
not his employees. He openly disapproved of Sholem Asch’s romanticism, but
brought him onto the Forverts staff anyway in 1914.)
Cahan had already dismissed Opatoshu’s earlier work in a review of Romance of
a Horse Thief, published in Forverts in 1915. Although he commended Opatoshu’s
linguistic inventiveness and accurate attention to detail, especially with respect to the
natural landscape, he deprecated his ability to create convincing characterizations:
‘In all of the pieces of his that I have read, I have absolutely not seen one living
person in my mind’s eye’.50 He concluded the review by comparing Opatoshu’s
fiction to that of Sholem Asch and finding it wanting.
Cahan’s usual practice was to ignore the work of any writer not in his employ, so
we can surmise that the appearance of his review of In poylishe velder in November
1922 was an envious response to the startling success of the American and Polish
editions of the novel. Nevertheless, it seems significant that he would bring the
mere fact of the novel’s existence to the attention of Forverts readers in such a baldly
antipathetic way. Building on the excerpt from Leo Kenig’s critique cited above,
he wrote that Mordkhe was even more woodenly portrayed than the groyse yidn
because ‘the author had at least heard or read about them in historical sources, while
Mordkhe’s character had to come from his own imagination, and, when it comes
to people, Opatoshu has no trace of imagination’.51
Since 1914, when he hired Sholem Asch as a regular contributor to Forverts, Cahan’s
interest in new prose works in Yiddish had been growing, and he was thinking of
bringing additional novelists onto the paper’s staff, but had yet to initiate this effort.
The vitriol in the review suggests that Opatoshu’s novel threatened Cahan’s notion
of the hegemony of Forverts as the place to read modern Yiddish literature. This
impression is strengthened by the fact he attempted to deride Opatoshu’s work in
comparison to that of Asch:
There is an apparent effort in the novel to follow in Asch’s footsteps. But Asch
has a glowing imagination. Even when he writes melodramatically, he observes
Faint Praise 65
and creates [...] living beings. Opatoshu, on the other hand, has imagination
only for the external aspects of writing [...] not for the heart of a novel or
story.52
Conclusion
Half a decade earlier, reviewers of Opatoshu’s work had enthused over the young
writer’s ability to create fast-paced, absorbing narratives and vivid characterizations.
Now many critics lavished praise on In poylishe velder, but mainly with regard to
its place as the first historical novel that Yiddish literature had produced. They
acknowledged that Opatoshu had laid the groundwork for the further development
of the genre, but stopped short of rejoicing in this achievement. While crediting
the author for boldly undertaking the venture, they found serious shortcomings in
the work. Chief among these were that it lacked literary unity and that its central
characters were superficially portrayed.
Most of the reviewers devoted the bulk of their remarks to the sections of the
novel that concern the Kotsker rebbe and the crisis in his court, creating the
impression that Opatoshu’s broad conception of the novel as an inquiry into the
nature of relations between Jews and Poles was either of lesser interest to them or
was beyond their ken.
If their judgements were harsh, some of the reasons for them may be found in
an assessment of the state of Yiddish literature in 1921. Such an effort is beyond the
scope of the present article, but the following comments may shed light on some of
the factors that shaped the critics’ response.
It was a moment at which many disparate impulses were driving writers of
Yiddish literature and its critics. The First World War and subsequent hostilities had
recently ended and, as Nakhmen Mayzil’s memoir shows, Yiddish cultural activists
on both sides of the Atlantic were very eager to renew contacts with one another.
All three classic Yiddish writers had died during the war years, and the question
of how the new era of Yiddish letters would take shape was of great concern.
Leftists were insisting that Yiddish literature commit itself to klasn-bavustzinikeyt
(class consciousness), and spirited, sometimes rancorous debates over what was
meant by that idea were taking place. Innovative modernist poetic movements
were taking shape, and Yiddish writers on both continents now aspired to achieve
recognition as contributors to world literature. The fact that a Yiddish writer had
written a historical novel — a genre in which many great European novelists had
excelled — was propitious. Thus, the realization that In poylishe velder had fallen
short of expectations was a source of considerable disappointment, and so the high
praise with which most of the reviews began faded to faint praise, which can be
damning.
More than some of the other critics surveyed here, Shmuel Niger grasped the
potential contribution of Opatoshu’s novel. In the opening section of his review, he
deplored what he called the impoverished state of much of contemporary Yiddish
literature, and asked ‘where is the artist, the poet, the visionary?’53 Dissatisfied
though he was with the state of Yiddish letters, he understood that his role as a critic
66 Ellen Kellman
was to offer both motivation and guidance to serious writers. He was thus at pains
not to diminish Opatoshu’s achievement, but rather to commend it as a step in the
right direction, and so he concluded his review of In Poylishe velder with a generous
assessment of Mordkhe’s role in the novel:
He has ceased to be a living being and has become a legendary figure, a symbol.
[...] But Mordkhe is still a great accomplishment. His individual qualities are
not lifelike enough, but therefore something collective, something national,
lives in him. [...] We do not yet find in him the great hero, the mythic figure,
the modern messiah that contemporary Yiddish literature must allow to grow
out of our blood and pain, but he has already shown us the way toward this
lofty and inevitable goal of our creativity.54
Notes to Chapter 4
1. Ruth R. Wisse, A Little Love in Big Manhattan (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988),
pp. 51–52.
2. ‘Y. Opatoshu vegn der yunger yidisher literatur in Amerike’, Bikher-velt, May–Yuni 1922, p. 245.
3. Ibid., p. 246.
4. Both works were published by Literarisher Farlag, New York.
5. Aleyn was published by Farlag Naye Tsayt and Hibru by Farlag Maks N. Mayzel. Untervelt was
brought out by Literarisher Farlag in 1919. All three publishers were located in New York.
6. I have not seen this early version of the novel. The microfilm of the periodical lacks issues from
1915.
7. D.B., ‘In der bikher-velt’, Fraye arbeter shtime, 31 May 1913, pp. 4–5.
8. Borekh Rivkin, ‘Di naye heym’, Tsukunft, 1914, pp. 977–78.
9. Moissaye Olgin, ‘Y. Opatoshu — kurtse kharakteristik’, Di naye velt, 27 August 1915, p. 8.
10. Ibid.
11. Hillel Rogoff, ‘Nyu-yorker geto, A roman fun a ferd-ganev, Poylishe velder fun Y. Opatoshu — an
opshatsung’, Tsukunft, August 1918, pp. 496–97.
12. For instance, in 1913, Bal-Makhshoves (pseudonym of Yisrol Elyashev) reviewed A roman fun a
ferd-ganev in Vokhnblat no. 28 (a supplement to Der fraynd); Shmuel Niger also reviewed the work
in Di yidishe velt in the same year (5 May 1913).
13. A sixth member of the group, A. Litvak (pseudonym of Khayim-Yankl Helfand), arrived in
Poland later that year.
14. The ideological basis of Kultur-Lige was Diasporism, an idea that had more than a few adherents
in the period immediately following the Russian Revolution. Its adherents hoped that, with
the impetus to grant and secure ethnic minority rights in post-war Europe, Jewish cultural life
could be rebuilt on the principle of extraterritorial autonomy (also called national-personal and
national-cultural autonomy), which meant that cohesive ethnic groups without territory of their
own would be entitled to construct and direct their internal cultural affairs.
15. Kultur-Lige was subsequently revived in Kiev under Communist leadership.
16. Nakhmen Mayzil, Geven a mol a lebn (Buenos Aires: Tsentral-farband fun poylishe yidn in
argentine, 1951), p. 50.
17. Ibid., p. 51.
18. Nakhmen Mayzil, Yoysef Opatoshu (Warsaw: Literarishe bleter, 1937), p. 64.
19. Yankev Shatski, ‘Opatoshus 1863’, Fraye arbeter shtime, 16 April 1926, pp. 3 and 6.
20. Maks Erik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, Di yidishe velt, August 1928. Reprinted in YKUF-
almanakh 1967 (New York: YKUF Farlag, 1967).
21. Shakhne Epshteyn, ‘Forvort, 1863 (Y. Opatoshu)’ (Kiev: Kooperativer farlag Kultur-Lige, 1929),
pp. 5–12.
22. B. Rivkin, ‘In poylishe velder’, Tsayt, 28 August 1921, p. 4.
23. Ibid.
Faint Praise 67
24. Shmuel Niger, ‘Y. Opatoshus historisher roman’, Der tog, 15 May 1921, p. 9.
25. Arn Glants, ‘Y. Opatoshu — a pruv af an opshatsung’, Fraye arbeter shtime, 8 April, 1921; H-D.
Nomberg, ‘Opatoshus In poylishe velder’, Bikher-velt, March–April, 1922, p. 113.
26. Hillel Rogoff, ‘In poylishe velder — a historisher roman fun Y. Opatoshu’, Forverts, 3 July 1921, p. 2.
27. Maks Erik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, Di yidishe velt, August, 1928. YKUF-Farlag reprint,
p. 303 (see n. 20 above).
28. Moyshe Katz, ‘In di poylishe velder’, Fraye arbeter shtime, 22 July 1921, p. 5.
29. Ibid.
30. B. Rivkin, ‘In poylishe velder’, Tsayt, 28 August 1921, p. 4.
32. Hillel Rogoff, ‘In poylishe velder — a historisher roman fun Y. Opatoshu’, Forverts, 3 July 1921, p. 2.
33. Meyer Balaban, ‘Di historishe motivn in Y. Opatoshus In Poylishe velder’, Bikher-velt, March–
April, 1922 (no. 2), p. 518.
34. Ibid., p. 520.
35. Ibid., p. 522.
36. Ibid.
38. Leo Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, Di tribune, August, 1922, number 11 (32), 60–61. The review was
reprinted in I. M. Vaysnberg’s journal Inzer hofening, 15 May 1926 (heft 9), 19–25. A revised,
somewhat softened version appeared in Kenig’s book Shrayber un verk (Vilna: Farlag B. Kletskin,
1929), pp. 48–54.
39. H.-D. Nomberg, ‘Opatoshus In poylishe velder’, Bikher-velt, 1922, p. 115.
40. Hillel Rogoff, ‘In poylishe velder — a historisher roman fun Y. Opatoshu’, Forverts, 3 July 1921,
p. 2.
41. Yankev Shatski, ‘Opatoshus 1863’, Fraye arbeter shtime, 16 April, 1926, p. 3.
42. Leo Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, Di tribune, August, 1922, no. 11 (32), p. 58.
43. Ibid., p. 57.
45. N. Oyslender, ‘Himlloze kunst’, Shtrom (no. 3), 1922, p. 66.
46. Shakhne Epshteyn, ‘Forvort, 1863 (Y. Opatoshu)’, p. 7.
47. Maks Erik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, Di yidishe velt, August 1928, YKUF-Farlag reprint,
p. 307.
48. Ibid., pp. 304–05.
49. Hillel Rogoff, ‘In poylishe velder — a historisher roman fun Y. Opatoshu’, Forverts, 3 July 1921,
section 2, p. 2.
50. A.C., ‘A sheyner shrayber’, Forverts, 7 November 1915, p. 4.
51. Ab. Cahan, ‘In poylishn veldl’, Forverts, 26 November 1922, p. 3. Cahan cites Leo Kenig’s review
in Di tribune in a footnote — see n. 42 above.
52. Ibid.
Chapter 5
v
The Two Souls of Mordkhe:

In poylishe velder
Sabine Koller
Norvid [...] hot gehat in zikh epes fun Kristusn [...] genogt di pipke, ongelozt
s’tsimerl mit roykh un nisht oyfgehert tsu redn:
— [...] Loyt di nays, vos der ‘Dzhennik poznanski’ brengt, kon men zikh
rikhtn yedn tog oyf an oyfshtand. Zoln di iberfaln in Varshe vayter azoy
onhaltn, kon yedn tog oysbrekhn ...
— S’volt geven an umglik, panye, hot Kahanen im ibergerisn, s’folk iz nokh
nisht tsugegreyt!
There was something Jesus-like about Norwid [...] he chewed on his pipe,
filling the room with smoke and did not stop talking:
— [...] According to the news in Dziennik poznański [The Poznan Daily —
S.K.] a rebellion is to be expected any day. If the attacks in Warsaw continue
like this, it could happen any day that an uprising ...
— It would be a disaster, Pan. Kahane interrupted Norwid, the people are
not ready yet!
Joseph Opatoshu
Izraelowi, bratu starszemu, uszanowanie, braterstwo, pomoc na drodze ku jego

dobru wiecznemu i doczesnemu. Równe we wszystkim prawo.
[To Israel, our elder brother, honour, fraternity, help in striving towards his
eternal and temporal goal. Equal rights in all things.]
Adam Mickiewicz
Introduction: Opatoshu Lost and Found in Polish Woods

When Joseph Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder (In Polish woods) appeared in 1921, the
realist writer Hersh Dovid Nomberg was raving about it. For him, the novel was
‘a great literary event, as it is the first attempt to create a historical novel [...] To
me, Opatoshu is the real hero of his novel as his achievements were considerable’.1
The literary critic Leo Kenig, however, was disappointed. He asked, rhetorically:
‘Where is Opatoshu?’, and answered: Opatoshu ‘got lost in the Polish woods’.2
While Kenig recognized Opatoshu as an intellectual author who went beyond Itshe
Meyer Vaysenberg’s naturalism and Sholem Asch’s romanticism, he believed that
the historical material was stif ling the author’s artistic creativity: ‘in the book you
The Two Souls of Mordkhe 69
see very little of the artist and creator, of Opatoshu himself ’.3 In his critical 1928
article ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’ ( Joseph Opatoshu’s trilogy) which surveyed
Opatoshu’s works and their rootedness in Yiddish and Slavic literatures, Max Erik
seems to agree with this view, referring to Opatoshu’s own words that in In poylishe
velder ‘the material overwhelmed him’.4
Indeed, in In poylishe velder, Joseph Opatoshu accomplished a task of enormous
proportions. According to Alexander Eliasberg’s postscript to the German translation
by Sigfried Schmitz, published in 1928, Opatoshu’s book ‘is the visionary history
of an epoch seen through psychology and cultural history. The hero is standing
on a fault line between the diverging directions and movements’ of Jewish life and
Jewish thinking.5
The hero of Opatoshu’s three-part novel is Mordkhe, a Jewish man who was
brought up in the Polish woods on the Vistula river where his father worked as
a shrayber, an administrator of the forests owned by Polish noblemen. During his
stay at the Hasidic court of Reb Mendele of Kotsk, where he was immersed in
the Hasidic faith, personified by the Kotsker rebbe, Reb Mendele, and Reb Itshe,
witnessed its decline and even perversion, Mordkhe became familiar with the ideas
of the Jewish Enlightenment. ‘Seduced’ by the apikoyres (freethinker) Shmiel, he
got attracted by liberal ideas of Polish emancipation that were discussed at the home
of Yosl Strahl. In the salon of Strahl’s wife Felicia, Mordkhe was enamoured by a
fascinating woman and perhaps even more fascinating ideas of the Jewish–Polish
brotherhood on the eve of the Polish uprising in 1863. In the central chapter ‘Roym
un Yerusholayim’ (Rome and Jerusalem) of the third part of In poylishe velder,
Mordkhe emerges as a Jewish fighter for the national Polish liberation during the
mass demonstrations of 1861. However, the aggression of the Polish peasants quickly
turns against the aristocracy, the Polish szlachta (nobility), and the Jews. The Polish
revolt against the tsarist oppression turns into the violence of the Polish people
against their Jewish ‘neighbours’. Anti-Jewish aggression supplants the anti-Russian
spirit. These events coincided with the death of Reb Mendele of Kotsk and the
ensuing disaster. In a situation of despair and hatred, Mordkhe has no choice but to
leave Congress Poland and go into exile.
Opatoshu’s narrator does not make it easy for Mordkhe, the protagonist and — as
Leo Kenig correctly pointed out — the author’s fictional voice.6 Whether viewed
from the outside perspective of Opatoshu’s time or from the inside of the novel,
Mordkhe — as the symbolic representative of Polish Jewry — has to find his way
through the maze of the complex Jewish–Polish relationships.
Opatoshu knows this multicultural and multi-religious milieu inside out. As an
avid reader and a prolific writer, he was well familiar with the variety of European
literary traditions and Jewish and Christian historical concepts. This set of problems
acquired a greater significance during the First World War, when he was working
on In poylishe velder. Opatoshu was very much aware of the mass expulsions, of the
anti-Semitic persecutions, and the violence in the Russian Pale of Settlement and
in Russian-occupied Galicia at that time. Thus the Polish question had also turned
into the Jewish question.
70 Sabine Koller
The History of Polish Jews: A Golden Age and an Iron Age

The work on In poylishe velder offered Opatoshu the opportunity to portray the
history of the Jews in Poland. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the
Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Rzeczpospolita, could pride itself on being
the first semi-federal, albeit aristocratic republic in Europe. It was a time of successful
Polish–Jewish cohabitation with an autonomous Jewish kahal-system and a Jewish
synod, the Va’ad Arba’ Aratzot (Council of Four Lands).7 The three Polish partitions
in 1772, 1793, and 1795 resulted in the incorporation of the Polish territory into
the neighbouring states of Prussia, Austria, and Russia. While France gained at
least some civil and national liberties through the Revolution of 1789, Poland was
losing its sovereignty. As Europe entered the century of nation-building, Poland
traumatically suffered the loss of its statehood.8 Herder’s idealistic, yet potentially
dangerous, notion of the merger between ‘state, nation, and language’ resulted in
homogenizing collective (national) identity constructions, but the Polish–Lithuanian
multiethnic project came to a dead end.
The Polish ‘nation without state’ ( Jörg Hoensch) was heavily traumatized, but
its political non-existence was compensated by cultural f lourishing.9 Paris had
become the centre of the ‘Great Emigration’ as a result of the November uprising
in 1830 and the Russian–Polish war in 1830–31. The famous Polish émigré writers
and poets, such as Adam Mickiewicz, Juliusz Słowacki, Zygmunt Krasiński, and
Cyprian Kamil Norwid, upheld the Polish identity via literary means.
A parallel between the situation of Jews and Poles is obvious: lacking a territorial
sovereignty, both nations were in exile and developed a strong will to survive. Jews
and Poles existed as a ‘spirit without a body’, strengthening their presence primarily
through cultural activity and literary creations of great significance and beauty.10
Between 1861 and 1863, the time span of Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder and 1863, the
second part of his trilogy, Poles and Jews experienced a short period of brotherhood
and solidarity.11 It was a time of unusual closeness between the Polish majority
and its Jewish minority in Congress Poland, a rare exception to the deeply rooted
and often violent anti-Semitism in Polish society of the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries.12 An awareness of this special situation is important for an adequate
appreciation of the historical, social, and cultural dimensions of Opatoshu’s novel.
As a highly accurate seismograph of the difficult historical reality of Jewish
existence among the non-Jewish environment with all its internal ambiguities and
contradictions, Opatoshu does not allow himself to be deceived by this heyday in
Jewish–Polish relations. On the contrary, this unique historic moment serves as a
compass for understanding the horrors and disillusions experienced by Polish Jews
during and after the First World War.
In this essay, my intention is to analyse the Jewish–Slavonic network of literary
and ideological relationships in In poylishe velder. Sometimes this (inter-)cultural
network prevents the protagonist from falling, sometimes it holds him captive. The
Polish, Russian, and Yiddish literatures and cultures are very closely intertwined in
the context of the novel. The larger questions, about the meaning of history and the
role of the Jews in it — the scent of Jewish Hegelianism wafts through the text —
are unmistakably the driving forces in Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder. Searching for an
answer, he reaches back not only to his own Jewish tradition, but also to classics of
Slavic literatures, such as the Russian novelists Lev Tolstoy and Fedor Dostoevsky,
and the Polish writer Stefan Żeromski, the great romantic poet Adam Mickiewicz,
and the literary prophet and genius Cyprian Kamil Norwid.
A (Failed) Polish-Jewish Brotherhood: The Jew with the Cross

In Warsaw, Jews participated in patriotic demonstrations in support of Polish
protests against Russian domination. The events of 1861 represent a special case of
‘fraternizing with the Jews’ (bratanie się z Żydami).13 Jewish Passover and Catholic
Easter coincided that year and were celebrated to some extent together.14 On 8
April, during the burial of the Polish freedom fighter Ksawery Stobnicki, Cossacks
attacked the procession. A Jewish student named Michał Landy seized a cross from
the hands of a dying Catholic clergyman and was killed.15 Landy became celebrated
as a hero by Poles as well as by Jews. From the Christian perspective, Landy
sacrificed himself in an act that ‘ennobles the Jew and ultimately leads to a shift in
his theological status’.16 Numerous variations of the Landy legend appeared in art
and literature. In fine arts, Landy’s death inspired painters such as Tony Robert-
Fleury, Alexander Lesser, and Arthur Szyk. Artur Grottger immortalized the frat
ern ization scene in one of his paintings. Several Polish poets lament his death in
lofty verses, among them Zygmunt Felitowicz and Cyprian Kamil Norwid.17 In the
anonymous poem Dwa Izraela (Two Israels), Landy appeared as a sacrificial child
who, together with his Polish brother, ‘gave their lives for holy Poland’ (za świętą
Polskę oddało swe życie).18
Joseph Opatoshu was the first — and maybe the only — author to introduce the
Landy legend into Yiddish literature. For the purpose of the novel, he deliberately
altered some historical facts. The sacrificial myth was relocated from Warsaw to the
Kotsk area. According to Meyer Balaban, the geographical shift was accompanied
by a temporal one as well.19 In the chapter with the revealing title ‘Rome and
Jerusalem’, Mordkhe heads the mass gathering near Kotsk that was organized by
Franciscan monks. In a church filled with fervent chant, Catholic liturgical songs
intermingle with the Polish national hymn Boże coś Polskę (‘God save Poland’,
p. 295), and prayers with the cry for ‘yednoshtsh’ (Pol.: jedność, unity, ibid.). A statue
of Mary, fettered in irons, had been decorated with a ‘konfederatka’, i.e. a four-
cornered Polish cap, and the Polish eagle (pp. 294–95).
The following episode, described by the narrator, is almost identical to the
Landy-event:
Bald iz dos klapn gevorn shtarker, un a knal fun biksn hot fartoybt oyf a rege
dos shtile gezang. Der galekh hot aroysgelozt dem tseylem, a tsveyter hot im
oyfgehoybn, glaykh gefaln fun a koyl. Mordkhe hot untergekhapt dem tseylem.
(p. 299)
[Soon the knocks became stronger, and a volley of gunshots suddenly drowned
out the silent chant. The priest dropped the cross, a second one picked it up, and
was immediately struck by a bullet. Mordkhe seized the cross.]
72 Sabine Koller
Intertextually, the scene is closely related to Norwid’s poem Żydowie Polscy (Polish
Jews), his 1861 homage to the Jews — Norwid calls them ‘Maccabees’ — fighting
together with their Polish brothers in the streets of Warsaw.20 In four stanzas,
Norwid depicts close ties between the ‘northern man’ (człowiek połnocny), i.e. the
Poles, and the Jews: both humbly bear the loss of their homeland (stanza 1); in earlier
times (e. g. when the Jews who were expelled from Central Europe in the Middle
Ages settled in the Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania), they
coexisted under the same coat of arms (stanza 2); both are fighting together against
the tsarist regime, the Jews being a minority as they were in former times when the
Maccabees rebelled against the Romans (second century bc; stanzas 3 and 4):
Since history seemingly is confusion
When, in fact, it is strength and beauty —
Since it is like a testament
Which a cherub on high looks after,
Then once again the Maccabee stood
Not in ambiguous anxiety with the Pole
On a Warsaw pavement.
And when wealthier peoples on earth
Gave him not crosses, for which one dies,
But those from which it shines —
What then? He preferred instead
To stretch out defenceless arms, like David!21
In Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder, Mordkhe is depicted as the Jew in Norwid’s poem,
standing with ‘raised arms’, reaching out to the people. After the tumult, when
Cossacks had shot the priest, Mordkhe’s shirt is torn and his upper body is exposed;
in Norwid’s poem the Jews are fighting against the Russians with ‘bare chests’
(nagimi piersiami, ibid.). Defenceless like his Norwidian counterparts, Mordkhe
shouts at the Cossacks: ‘Shis! Mordeve umshuldike mentshn!’ (‘Shoot! Kill innocent
people!’, p. 299)
But unlike Landy or Norwid’s protagonist, Mordkhe does not sacrifice his life
for the cross. Opatoshu’s imitation of Norwid’s poem blurs the heroic note of this
Polish–Jewish confraternization: Norwid, to whom Opatoshu dedicated the first
chapter in 1863, perceived Jews and Poles as fraternal nations. He followed the great
Polish Romantic poet, Adam Mickiewicz, who, in his Skład zasad (Declaration of
Principles) of 1849, considered the Jews historically the older brother to the Poles.22
In Mickiewicz’s Romantic vision, Poland, the ‘Christ-of-Nations’, was atoning for
the misdeeds of mankind after having been crucified, i.e. divided among Austria,
Prussia, and tsarist Russia. A hundred years later, this idea was revitalized in
Jewish thinking. On the occasion of the first anniversary of the new state of Israel,
Martin Buber euphorically repeated Mickiewicz’s ideas about the Jews as the ‘most
spiritual among all nations’. Poles and Jews are closely tied together: They both are
a Menschvolk, a ‘humane people’, whose suffering and grief have deep messianic
meaning.23 (Opatoshu also inserts a more comical version of Polish–Jewish
solidarity: the Jew dragged by Count Poniatowski, a historical figure, into the
church for the fraternization ceremony (pp. 296–97) echoes Mickiewicz’s Jankiel in
Pan Tadeusz (1834), a Jewish observant innkeeper and ardent Polish patriot.)24
Opatoshu transfers the brotherhood metaphor connecting Christ and the Polish
people to Mordkhe, the Jew, and the way the Polish peasants perceive him: ‘tsvishn
di f laternde fonen hobn aroysgeshtralt tsvey penemer. Vi tsvey layblikhe brider —
der blaykher “zun” un der nokh blaykhere Mordkhe’ (two faces were beaming out
between f lapping f lags. Just like two full brothers — the pale ‘son’ and the even
paler Mordkhe; p. 297). The Polish people can barely believe their eyes: ‘Er zet
dokh oys vi pan Yezus!’ (But he looks like Jesus!; p. 298).
But Mordkhe’s identification with Jesus is ‘fake’. At the moment when Mordkhe
is externally closest to Jesus, the internal distance is enormous. In a mystical vision
Mordkhe is holding the cross, ‘dem sod fun der velt’ (the world’s secret; p. 300) in
his hand. Yet it is broken; when Mordkhe tries to hurl it against the (Christian)
masses, it breaks, symbolizing the fall of Rome, and, consequently, the rise of
Jerusalem. This was predicted by Philip Kahane, a faithful follower of Moses Hess
and a fighter for the Polish cause who lost his right arm during the insurrection
of 1863.25
Corpses and Crows: Deconstructing Historical Myths

Opatoshu does not stop at this historically crucial reminiscence of Moses Hess and
his main oeuvre Rome and Jerusalem, published in 1862. The pathos of numerous
hymns to the Polish–Jewish fraternity is shadowed by horror. On the one hand, we
find a romantic literarization of the Jewish sacrificial hero, in which the shedding
of his blood for the Polish cause becomes a glorified yet abstract accessory. This is
the case in Norwid’s poem, and in the anonymous poem Dwa Izraela, where the
brotherhood between Poles and Jews is sealed with blood.26 On the other hand,
Opatoshu complements the abstract image with a realistic description of violence
and death, the ‘good ( Jewish) protagonist’ with the (Christian/Polish) homo homini
lupus est, and the idealized martyr with the actual corpse. (This coincides with a
change of genre from poetry to prose.)
After the demonstration, Mordkhe witnesses a scene worthy of Alfred Hitch
cock:
a kro hot zikh tseshrin, bald a tsveyte, a drite un mit a krokn hobn zikh kroen
aropgelozt fun ale zaytn. Mordkhen iz ayngefaln az a mentsh muz dortn lign.
Er hot ongeshtrengt di oygn, gezen vi di shvartse shnoblen tseykhnen zikh
ibern shney, vern lenger, shpitsiker, faln hin un tsurik, vi blankende klinglekh,
lozn zikh arop vu der mentsh ligt. A kro hot zikh avekgeshtelt mit tseshpreyte
f ligl oyfn sharbn, farrisn dem shnobl, vi a boympiker, un mit a farakshnte
pinktlekhkayt gepikt in shtern arayn, tifer, tifer, vi di kro volt mit a klin zikh
geklibn shpaltn dem sharbn. (pp. 301–02)
[A crow began to caw, soon another began, and a third, and then crows
descended, cawing from all over. Mordkhe remembered a person lying there.
He squinted, saw how the black beaks contrasted with the snow, how they
became longer, pointier, jerking back and forth like bare blades on the spot
where the body was. A crow landed with spread wings on the skull, threw its
beak up like a woodpecker, and hacked into the forehead with stubborn pre
cision, deeper and deeper, as if the crow wanted to split the skull with a wedge.]
74 Sabine Koller
The crows are not the only ones who desecrate the naked corpse: peasants loot the
former ‘wojownik’ (warrior) — Opatoshu uses the word ironically, as uttered by
the Polish looters (p. 302). A similar horror scenario can be found in the twentieth-
century works of Stefan Żeromski (1864–1925), a popular novelist who combined a
realist-expressionist style with patriotism and social criticism, mostly known for his
historical novel Popioły (Ashes), 1904.27
Żeromski, a contemporary of Prus, Reymont, and Sienkiewicz, but also of
Opatoshu, dedicated much of his writing to the Polish question and the Polish
uprisings. In his short story Echa leśne (Echoes in the Woods, 1905), the hero, a
Polish general fighting on behalf of tsarist Russia, mourns his nephew, whom he
raised after his brother’s death. The nephew had joined the insurgents during the
Polish rebellion in 1863. He was caught by pro-Russian troops, condemned as a
traitor to the Russian Empire (but not to his Polish fatherland), and subsequently
sentenced to death by his own uncle. In the story, the intimate atmosphere in the
forest recalls those in Opatoshu’s novel.28 In another short story entitled Rozdzióbią
nas kruki, wrony... (Ravens and Crows will chop us up...; 1894/1895) Polish peasants
rob the dead rebel, Andreas Borycki, who had fought under the Jewish (!) pseudo
nym Szymon Winrych.29 In a terribly depressing passage, the narrator depicts
with emotional detachment how crows gather around the dying horse and attack
Winrych’s corpse. One of the crows, the most audacious one, leads the f lock:
Za przykładem śmiałej wrony ruszyły się jej towarzyszki. Ta preparowała
żebro, inna szczypała nogę, jeszcze inna rozrabiała ranę w czaszce. Najbardziej
przecież ze wszytkich odznaczyła się ta (należy jej się tytuł: ‚tej miary‘), co
zapragnęła zajrzeć do wnętrza mózgu, do siedliska wolnej myśli i zupełnie
je zeżreć. Ta wstąpiła majestatycznie na nogę Winrycha, przemaszerowała
po nim, dotarła szczęśliwie aż do głowy i poczęła dobijać się zapamiętale do
wnętrza tej czaszki, do tej ostatniej fortecy polskiego powstania.
[The companions of the courageous crow followed its example. One was
working on a rib, a second one on a leg, a third one shredded the wound into
pieces. But one excelled above all others [...], who deigned to look into the
inner brain, into the seat of free will, and to devour it. With majestic steps it
trod on Winrych’s foot, marched along his leg, happily reached his head, and
began to advance like crazy into the interior of the skull, into this last fortress
of the Polish rebellion.] (pp. 57–58)
Żeromski describes the cruel victory of nature which follows its own laws, over
noble human ideals, ending in death. Opatoshu’s depiction is no less powerful than
Żeromski’s: he too emphasizes the physicality of death, stripped of any hope for
transcendence and immortality.
Crows, feasting on the cadavers of rebels, are also a motif in Żeromski’s short
novel Wierna rzeka (The Faithful River) of 1912. The novel takes a clear Pro-Jewish
stand: whenever violent Polish peasants or tsarist soldiers approach the house of
Salomea, the female protagonist of the story, Rivke, the daughter of a Jewish
innkeeper, warns her and thus supports the Polish rebellion. In Wierna rzeka, a
Russian officer murdered a leading figure of the Polish uprising of 1863. When
the officer forbids the burial of the corpse so that hungry crows would desecrate it,
he recalls a sentence of the Russian philosopher, writer, and democrat Alexander

Herzen. Herzen, who had left Russia in 1847, actively supported the Polish insur
rections against Russia. In his article ‘Resurrexit’ published in Kolokol (The Bell), a
Russian émigré journal edited in London, Herzen expressed his admiration for the
heroism of the Poles standing up for their liberty even when facing death, shouting
to their oppressors: ‘Go away, or tear our corpses apart like a raven...’ [Stupay von,
ili klyui voronom nashi trupy].30 Żeromski’s and Opatoshu’s literary descriptions of
the rebels thrown to the crows can be read like the brutal realization of Hercen’s
heroic defeat of the ‘Russian Goliath’ by the little ‘Polish David’ (who eventually
loses the fight).
Crows are a central symbolic image which Opatoshu developed in his In poylishe
velder. They are also an important link to Peretz Markish’s pogrom poem Di kupe
(The Heap, 1921/22), or to Yisroel Rabon’s hallucinatory novel Di gas (The Street,
1928). Opatoshu transcends the boundaries of a purely realistic description without
falling into neo-Romantic kitsch. In the second part of the novel crows function as
harbingers of disaster. The Polish Christian character Marcin calls them ‘farsholtene
neshomes’ (cursed souls, p. 115), as one of them caws while sitting on a cross (!). Reb
Mendele of Kotsk also refers to them in a similar way: they ‘efenen mit beyskayt
di shnoblen’ (open their beaks with malice) and tatter the innards of a chicken (pp.
229–30). At the end of the novel, when Mordkhe is about to leave the woman he
loves, the cawing of a crow uncannily echoes in the empty garden (p. 355). The
black bird symbolizing evil and death is contrasted with a white stork, the symbol of
Poland; with its broken wings, it serves as a symbol of the divided Poland, oppressed
by the tsarist empire (p. 313).
Opatoshu does not portray the tsarist oppressors as solely responsible for the
sorrow of Poland. In church, Mordkhe is terrified by the Catholic crowd, which
appears to him as an impenetrable wall unwilling to give him shelter (p. 294). His
doubts are confirmed when the Polish peasants, intoxicated by violence, attack
those who were fighting for their liberation. Later on, Mordkhe, the Christ-like
martyr, who lets himself to be lashed instead of a peasant (p. 327), is stigmatized as
the antichrist by the crowd and the clerics (p. 338). The infuriated mob demonizes
and attacks Mordkhe, thus ridiculing the possibility of a fusion between ideals of
Polish patriotism and Jewish emancipation, which gains support in the salons of the
enlightened intelligentsia (e.g. Shtral). This is a clear reference to Adam Mickiewicz,
Andrzej Towiański, and Josepf Hoëné-Wronski, the three famous promoters of
Polish messianism benefiting all people and of a Polish–Jewish brotherhood.
Here, in the use of the Christ motif, we see fundamental differences between
the Yiddish and Polish literary traditions. Żeromski does not bother with the
figure of Christ at all (on the contrary, he unmasks Catholic hypocrisy in Ravens
and Crows will chop us up). With his ‘Christ-Mordkhe’, Opatoshu instead precedes
the Yiddish variations and symbolization of Christ as depicted by the expressionist
poets Uri Tsvi Grinberg, Melekh Ravitsh, H. Leivick, and Peretz Markish, or by
Sholem Asch.31
The Christ-like Jew who defends the cross in an act that defies the dominant
religious stereotypes, both Christian and Jewish, and sacrifices his life for Poland
76 Sabine Koller
was enthusiastically embraced in Polish romantic poems. In the anti-Semitic Polish

nationalist setting, Opatoshu presents a real Jew as a Christ-like figure, rather than
‘Judaizing’ Jesus as it was later done by Sholem Asch or Marc Chagall. Judging from
In poylishe velder, we can be certain that Opatoshu would not have shared Asch’s
belief in a possible synthesis of Christian and Jewish traditions.32 At the same time,
Opatoshu deconstructs the Romantic concept of ‘Poland as the Christ of nations’.
Contrary to the Christian belief, the Polish peasant does not love, but hates his
brother. This attitude radically questions the identification of Poland with Christ,
as stressed in Polish messianism. The metaphorical Christian body is desecrated not
by strangers but by its own parts.
Unlike Mickiewicz or Asch, Opatoshu, in In poylishe velder, disavows the
martyrological dimension of the cross. It is unmasked as a simulacrum. The brother
hood between Poles and Jews failed because of the false brotherhood between
nationalism and faith. (It is not by chance that Norwid coined the idea that Poland
was not a society then, but simply a ‘national f lag’, thus pointing to the exaggerated
Polish patriotism at that time.)33
In poylishe velder between Jewish and Slavic Cultures

Opatoshu, an author with highly developed cross-cultural thinking, transgresses
the national boundaries of literature, history, and ideology. His In poylishe velder is
deeply rooted in Jewish and Slavic culture, literature, and historical thinking. In
his novel, Opatoshu, a connoisseur of Jewish and Slavic literatures, questions the
validity of national ideologies. This is based on the threefold interplay between
Jewish and Slavic–Polish pagan mythology, literature, and historiography.
Mythology
Opatoshu weaves together Hasidic stories like the legendary encounter between
Napoleon and the Braslever rebe (which has also been ascribed to other rebes
like the rebe of Kozhenits).34 Playing with historical facts, Opatoshu creates a
vivid picture of Reb Mendele of Kotsk, the ‘Mekka of Polish Hasidism’.35 Indeed,
Mendele, a rebellious Hasidic leader, a stubborn tzaddik, who had lived for about
twenty years in seclusion, apart from his Hasidic court and face to face with its
moral decline, experiences a severe crisis of faith.36 Following Martin Buber and his
characterization of Mendele’s life, Opatoshu recalls the legend about mice scurrying
in the tzaddik’s room: ‘However, when the Hasidim hear the rustling, they whisper
to the newcomer that these are souls, asking the rabbi for redemption’.37
In addition, Opatoshu dips into the pagan Slavic spring rituals around the river
goddess, Wanda, the inspiration for a Dvořák opera. In the opening chapter of the
novel Opatoshu describes the mixed pagan and Christian ritual of sacrificing straw
effigies to the river goddess on Easter (!).38 In a beautiful scene evoking mythical
unity between Poles and their Jewish neighbours, the forest Jews contribute their
share by offering beer:
Un gegloybt hot Mordkhes mishpokhe bemune shleyme, az di Vaykhsel
farlangt irs — hobn zey yedes yor geshtelt feslekh bir un mit gezang hobn di
‘Kotsker’ tsuzamen mit di fishers gebrakht a korbn — gevorfn dem goylem in

vaser arayn. (p. 8)
[Mordkhe’s family was completely convinced that the Vistula demanded a
sacrifice, and so they contributed kegs of beer year after year, and, while
singing, the ‘Kotsker’ [ Jews] made their (sacrificial) offering together with the
[Catholic — S.K.] fishermen — and threw the straw puppet into the water.]
Literature
In his 1928 review of ‘The Trilogy of Joseph Opatoshu’, Maks Erik points out
numerous intertextual references to Yiddish literature. In addition to Peretz’s neo-
Hasidic tale Tsvishn tsvey berg (Between Two Mountains, 1900), Opatoshu’s novel also
alludes to An-ski, Sholem Asch, Itshe Meyer Vaysenberg, and Dovid Bergelson. In
addition, Erik mentions the connection to the Polish symbolist group Młoda Polska
(Young Poland). The Young Poland authors such as Tadeusz Miciński, Leopold
Staff, or Maria Jehanne Wielopolska introduced similar frivolous-erotic or mystic
scenes into Polish literature. We can see similar patterns in Opatoshu’s satanic-
erotic description of the saturnalia of the Sabbatai-Zvi-adepts (pp. 248–60).39
Opatoshu, however, does not stop here. In In poylishe velder he refers to the
giants of Russian and Polish literature, Lev Tolstoy, Fedor Dostoevsky, Adam
Mickiewicz, and, as we have seen, Stefan Żeromski. Opatoshu contrasts private
and patriotic love, passion and war. In this respect, In poylishe velder comes close
to Tolstoy’s War and Peace (1868–69) as well as to Anna Karenina (1875–77). It is
beyond the scope of this article to examine the interrelations between Opatoshu’s
and Tolstoy’s historical novel, and their approach to the literary representation of
historical events. Regarding Anna Karenina, there is one striking parallel which
should be mentioned: portrait images of the heroine amplify her attractiveness and
mysterious beauty. Mordkhe, like Levin in Tolstoy’s novel, is struck by an etching
that represents Felicia. At this point in the novel, Felicia appears as a ‘vayblekh
shkhine-geshtalt’ (a female figure of the Shekhina; p. 210) to Mordkhe, who is still
submerged in Hasidic mysticism. The erotic tinge in this scene anticipates his desire
for her at the end of In poylishe velder. Ultimately, Mordkhe’s preoccupation with the
fate of the Jews precludes his continued infatuation with her.
Parallels between In poylishe velder and The Brothers Karamazov are evident.40
Moreover, Mordkhe’s ideological struggles make the novel a Yiddish ‘companion’ to
Dostoevsky’s The Possessed (1873). As in The Possessed, a fire breaks out symbolizing
the ideological crisis of the youth. In Dostoevsky’s case, it is the Russian orthodoxy
that is crumbling because of revolutionary socialism. In Opatoshu’s novel, Hasidism
is destroyed by the fanaticism and perversion of the Sabbatians. According to
Leo Kenig, the barefooted half-madman Yisroel is a Jewish ‘yurodivyi’ (God’s
fool) playing a crucial role in Dostoevsky’s ideological system.41 Like his female
counterpart Lebjadkina in Dostoevsky’s novel, Yisroel predicts a religious decline.
During the fire, Dostoevsky’s Dasha becomes aware that Stavrogin will never love
her, while in Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder, the sixteen-year-old Rivkele, Duszka’s
sister, confesses her love for Mordkhe — in vain: after Reb Mendele’s court has
burst into f lames, Mordkhe’s heart is inf lamed for Felicia (pp. 271–73).42
78 Sabine Koller
Dostoevsky’s apocalyptic atmosphere, Tolstoy’s refined introspection, and the

expressionist naturalism depiction of the Polish rebellion in Żeromski are transferred
to Yiddish literature through Opatoshu’s novel. Mordkhe’s shift between Jewish
thinking and Polish ‘action’ originates in Polish Romanticism.
In the home of Shtral, gathering place of Polish nobility and Jewish intellectuals,
Count Komarowski — Opatoshu might have come across this name in the poem
Dwa Izraela — is reciting from Adam Mickiewicz’s Wielka improwizacja (Great
Improvisation), part of the poetic drama Dziady (Forefathers’ Eve; pp. 214–15).43 In
the earlier, so-called Vilna version (parts i, ii, and iv, 1823) of the poetic drama,
the protagonist Gustaw is portrayed as a romantic lover. But after the failed Polish
uprising of 1831, in the Dresden version (part iii, 1832), Mickiewicz transformed
the central hero into Konrad, a patriot and a visionary. By this intentional shift,
the Romantic love affair was turned into a national drama. The new name of the
hero symbolizes the Polish struggle for liberation from the Russian yoke because
Konrad is also the name of the protagonist in Mickiewicz’s famous poem Konrad
Wallenrod (1828), written during his exile to Russia and interpreted as a call for an
armed uprising. It also alludes to his friend Kondratii Ryleev, a Russian poet who,
like Mickiewicz, fought against tsarist oppression and who was sentenced to death
after the December insurrection in Petersburg in 1825.
In Mickiewicz’s Wielka improwizacja, a Faust-like scene, which to some extent
represents the birth of the messianic theme in the Polish literature, Konrad appears
as the active poet-genius who defies God and offers his soul in exchange for the
possibility to serve his people.44 Here, the Promethean-diabolic poet, who could
dominate the world in a God-like fashion, struggles with the poet of the nation.45
Mickiewicz’s Konrad is ready to ‘accept the martyr’s crown for his people’, as later
on is Opatoshu’s Mordkhe (perhaps under the inf luence of the recitation by a
Pro-Jewish nobleman at Shtral’s home).46 In the following fifth scene, Mickiewicz
masterfully constructs an apocalyptic vision for friar Peter, who is lying on his face
in his cell with his arms stretched out like a cross.47 By alluding to the biblical
apocalyptic descriptions of Ezekiel (1:5–14) and John (4:6–8), Mickiewicz fuses
Christ’s martyrdom with Poland’s martyrdom. At the same time, the redeemer of
the future Polish nation in his Dziady bears traits similar to Mickiewicz himself,
who integrates Christian and Jewish elements into his dramatic apocalypse. Indeed,
Mickiewicz’s Wielka improwizacja evokes memories of portions of the Midrash in
Mordkhe. The number forty-four that is mentioned — Opatoshu quotes this passage
in its Polish original — has been interpreted as a cryptonym for Mickiewicz’s
Hebrew name, Adam.48
Opatoshu included this passage intentionally: Mickiewicz’s affinity to Jewish
mysticism is another integral part of his Jewish–Polish brotherhood. For Mickiewicz,
the romantic genius of Poland and role model of the Polish insurrection movement,
the history of Jews and Poles are fatefully bound together.
History and Philosophy of History

Mickiewicz develops his ideas of Polish messianism not only in Dziady, but also
in his Księgi narodu polskiego (Books of the Polish Nation) and Księgi pielgrzymstwa
polskiego (Books of the Polish Pilgrimage), published in 1832. In both manifesto-like
historiosophical visions, Mickiewiecz conceives history as theophany.49 Like
Mickiewicz, the Lithuanian–Polish mystic Andrzej Towiański proferred the idea
of ‘Poland as Christ of the nations’.50 Both Towiański and Mickiewicz include the
Jews, together with the French and Poles, among the great messianic nations. On
Tisha be’Av in 1845, Mickiewicz prepared a ‘Porządek służby w synagodze’ (Order
of the services in the synagogue).51 This document, along with Mickiewicz’s plans
for creating a Jewish legion in 1855 to fight with the Poles against the Russian
oppressors, is an impressive testimony to Mickiewicz’s ideals for a close relationship
between Jewish and Polish exiles.
The concept of Polish messianism as a vehicle of universal redemption is
originally introduced by the Polish mathematician and philosopher Joseph Hoëné-
Wroński, who fought in Kościuszko’s army during the Polish insurrection against
Russia in 1794. Strongly inf luenced by Kant and the Kabbalah, Hoëné-Wroński
developed a messianic concept of an ‘absolute philosophy of history’.52 Opatoshu
appropriates the Polish messianic historical philosophy of Mickiewicz, Towiański,
and Hoëné-Wronski, which he adapts to a Jewish perspective using the ideas of
Moses Hess and Philip Kahane. Kahane, initially a fervent socialist, was carried
away by enthusiasm for the Jewish awakening and became a follower of Hess’s
messianism. In In poylishe velder, Mordkhe expresses his admiration for Kahane as
the ideal representative of modern Jewish identity, since Kahane cherishes Hasidism
as the inner Jewish rebellion against a petrified rabbinical adherence to the Torah
(p. 210). In the second part of Opatoshu’s trilogy about the Polish uprising, 1863, it
is Kahane who introduces Mordkhe to Moses Hess in Paris.
Hess, initially a radical socialist thinker and collaborator of Marx, Engels, and
Bakunin, in the later stage of his career turned to Jewish nationalism and predicted
the general awakening of all oppressed people in his book Rome and Jerusalem, for
which he, the former ‘Communist Rabbi’, turned into a precursor of Zionism.53
Enthusiastic about the Spring of Nations in the first half of the nineteenth century,
Hess regarded Rome as a representation of the recent success of the Italian nationalist
movement. In that period of national awakening, he believed the Jewish people to
be once again on the brink of establishing their statehood. Applying the Hegelian
dialectics of history as the manifestation of the world spirit, Hess presented his vision
of messianism, claiming that a new era had begun with the French Revolution
that would bring about a ‘New Jerusalem’. Along with Nachman Krochmal’s
philosophy of history and Samuel Hirsch’s substance metaphysics, Hess developed
a political ‘philosophy of action’, anticipating Ahad Haam’s cultural Zionism and
Theodor Herzl’s Zionism.54 In this philosophy, the solution of the Jewish question
cannot be achieved through individual effort, but only through the entire Jewish
nation.55 Hess’s ‘New Jerusalem’ should not be limited to a literal interpretation:
In his vision, its realization is a common goal in Jewish and Christian thought
80 Sabine Koller
and depends on a common socialist and interreligious struggle.56 Christian–Jewish

coexistence is seen as a prerequisite for building a Jewish nation and for the salvation
of mankind, as envisioned by both Mickiewicz and Hess.
Opatoshu disavows any kind of messianism in his In poylishe velder. The
enthusiasm of the Polish nobility for the Jews and the brutality of the Polish peasants
to them are diametrically opposed. Opatoshu is driven by a question which may
have inspired him to write the entire trilogy around the Polish uprising: Where
does the Jewish path lie between salvation and perdition, between the philosophy
of history and the actual reality of an (anti-Semitic) history? To find an answer to
this question, the genre of the novel may speak for itself.
Mordkhe’s ‘Rites de Passage’: In poylishe velder as a Coming-Of-Age Novel

Like Tolstoy there are two forces struggling within Opatoshu: the wish to portray
individual passion and the need to depict great historical events in literature. In
poylishe velder is situated between Anna Karenina and War and Peace, between the
Romantic and the historical novel. Dostoevsky’s inf luences may have tipped the
scales towards the historical novel and the novel of ideas.
Mordkhe is foremost a person of ideas like many of Dostoevsky’s characters;
the individual-earthly needs that worry Tolstoy are eventually of little concern to
him.57 He is a symbolic figure, the sintez-yid, the ‘Synthetic Jew’, as Leo Kenig aptly
puts it.58 But, Kenig argues, it is difficult for him to develop into an autonomous
character in the novel as a result of the inf luences (as described), which weigh him
down (ibid.).
In poylishe velder is also a coming-of-age novel. Opatoshu shares with Tolstoy the
Bakhtinian chronotope of a journey through life.59 We are following Mordkhe as
he becomes human, from the bon sauvage à la Rousseau to a cultivated follower of
the Polish liberation movement.
Mordkhe, a Jewish Wilhelm Meister, leaves the mythical space of the woods, to
pass through the religious space of khsides, Hasidic faith, and the rational space of the
Enlightenment, the space of logos. Both spaces are in the midst of decay: Mendele
is dying; Hasidism has degenerated into a caricature of itself; Strahl appears as a
dead branch of the Haskalah.60 Mordkhe’s path leads him systematically to the vita
activa of the historical process. After several ‘rites de passage’ Mordkhe is ready for
the modern, i.e. secular, life as a Jewish intellectual. Instead of choosing the cyclic
routine of the mythical time with all its rites and customs, he opts for the linearity
(and contiguity) of historical time. From deep within the Polish woods he moves
to the intellectual heights of the capital city of Paris. In the Paris chapters of 1863,
he will continue his journeyman years and apprenticeship. Once there, he finds
himself again at the crossroads of modernity. Pro-Polish messianism and socialism
await him, as well as Moses Hess’s historiography, which assigns an autonomous place
to the Jews in the historical process.
Conclusion: The Power of the Mind and the Superior Force of History
Leo Kenig finds some connections between Yitskhok Leybush Peretz and Opatoshu.
However, in Kenig’s view, Opatoshu does not achieve the stature that Peretz has as
a ‘creative cultural person’.61
In poylishe velder can be criticized for its aestheticism (or historical and ideational
overlap) and may be inferior to Peretz’s oeuvre, yet Opatoshu does follow Peretz in
one point: he guarantees cultural continuity through rukhnies, ‘spirituality’, which
is struggling with gashmies, ‘corporality’.62 Thus Opatoshu becomes another link in
Peretz’s often-invoked keyt (chain), uniting Jewish literature and culture, facilitating
the leap into modernity.
Protected by Polish forests, Mordkhe and the young Rokhl taste the forbidden
fruit of love. Yet, Mordkhe exchanges this ‘Rachel of the woods’ for the Rachel
of the Torah (cf. Reb Itshe’s vision on p. 45), exchanging the eroticism of love
for eroticism in the service of Hasidic mysticism. The pleasures of the f lesh, the
gashmies, yield to the loftiness of the spirit, the rukhnies. Here Opatoshu operates
within the imaginary world of Peretz. However, for the sake of history, Mordkhe
ascends into another sphere, into the sphere of secular spirituality. He sacrifices
his love for Felicia to this ‘secular rukhnies’.63 (Once again, Opatoshu follows in
Żeromski’s footsteps.)64 Mordkhe’s decision to move to Paris, away from Poland, is
a choice in favour of Polish-Jewish history, of the collective Polish-Jewish fate, and
against his personal fortune.
Opatoshu does not present a plethora of ethical superstars emerging from an
idealized landscape of faith and moral superiority as in Peretz’s Hasidic Tales.
Mordkhe turns to historical rukhnies while being surrounded by a cruel reality, bitter
and contingent (even if some elements of Romanticism do blur Opatoshu’s realism).
1863 and Aleyn (Alone) were less successful sequels to In poylishe velder. But even
without them it becomes clear: Opatoshu’s novel is a testimony to his ongoing
attempts aesthetically to ‘domesticate’ the elementary forces of history. Moreover,
Opatoshu is too precise an observer of world history and too disenchanted with the
fate of the Jews (not only in the First World War), to heroically offer a teleological
concept of history.
Mordkhe is conceptualized as a carrier of ideas concerning Jewish history.
The enormous mission undertaken by him outweighs any chances for his own
individual fortune. At the same time, Opatoshu unmasks the naive concept of
Christian-Jewish co-messianism. Discerning the discursive threads of yidishkayt in
In poylishe velder, one conclusion is fundamental: Mordkhe’s quest for identity can
also be understood symbolically — before the Jewish people can fraternize with the
Poles (and, in a larger scope, the Gentiles) they must find themselves.
Notes to Chapter 5
1. ‘Opatoshus “In poylishe velder” ’, Bikhervelt, 2 (1922), 114–18 (p. 114).
2. Leo Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu? (Vegn zayn roman “In poylishe velder”)’, in Shrayber un verk.
Etyudn un shtrikhn (Vilne: Kletskin, 1929), pp. 48–54.
82 Sabine Koller
3. Leo Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, p. 51.

4. Maks Erik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, in YKUF-Almanakh, ed. by Nakhmen Mayzil (New
York: YKUF, 1967), pp. 300–08 (p. 303). For a discussion of the literary criticism on Opatoshu
and especially on In Polish woods see Ellen Kellman’s article in this volume. All further references
are to Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder (Nyu-York: Yidisher farlag far literature un visnshaft, 1921).
Translations from Yiddish and Polish are my own unless otherwise stated.
5. ‘Die Welt des letzten Waldjuden’, in Der letzte Waldjude (Berlin: Welt-Verlag, 1928), p. 319.
6. Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, p. 54.
7. Cf. Dan Diner, ‘Jüdische Minderheitenerfahrung: Von der Korporation zur Nationalität’,
in Mut zur Freiheit: Ein Leben voller Projekte. Festschrift zum 80. Geburtstag von Wolfgang Marcus,
ed. by Mike Schmeitzner and Heinrich Wiedemann (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2007), pp. 425–32
(pp. 425–26).
8. Rudolf Jaworski/Christian Lübke/Michael G. Müller, Eine kleine Geschichte Polens (Frankfurt a.
M.: Suhrkamp, 2000), p. 249.
9. Thomas Wünsch, ‘Polen’, in Studienhandbuch Östliches Europa, i: Geschichte Ostmittel- und
Südosteuropas, ed. by Harald Roth (Cologne, Weimar, and Vienna: Böhlau 1999), pp. 313–32 (pp.
320–21).
10. The formula ‘spirit without a body’ I took from Dirk Westerkamp in his Die philonische
Unterscheidung: Aufklärung, Orientalismus und Konstruktion der Philosophie (Munich: Fink, 2009),
p. 172.
11. Der Fremde als Nachbar. Polnische Positionen zur jüdischen Präsenz. Texte seit 1800, ed. by François
Guesnet (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2009), p. 131. The 1863 theme was echoed in Hebrew
literature as well, for example, in the works of Peretz Smolenskin; see the excellent study by
Magdalena Opalski and Israel Bartal, Poles and Jews: A Failed Brotherhood (Hanover and London:
Brandeis University Press, 1992), pp. 33–37, 88–97.
12. For a survey of Polish-Jewish history, see Antony Polonsky’s magnum opus The Jews in Poland
and Russia, 3 vols (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2010–12).
13. See Opalski and Bartal, Poles and Jews, pp. 41–44.
14. N. M. Gelber, Die Juden und der polnische Aufstand 1863 (Vienna and Leipzig: Löwit, 1923), p. 47.
15. One source talks about an old Jew: see Gelber, Die Juden und der polnische Aufstand 1863, p. 48, n.
1. According to François Guesnet, the events took place at the beginning of March; Der Fremde
als Nachbar, p. 130.
16. Opalski and Bartal, Poles and Jews, p. 45.
17. See Gelber, Die Juden und der polnische Aufstand 1863, pp. 170–75, and Opalski and Bartal, Poles
and Jews, pp. 43–48, 55–56. Landy appears as a literary hero in Zygmunt Felitowicz’s Synowie
Izraela (Sons of Israel; 1864) and as the prototype for the Jew dying with a cross in his hands in
Idealion (1864). In this novel, Felitowicz ‘dramatically contrasts the Russians — referred to in
the poem as the “barbaric hordes” (barbarzyńskie hordy) — with the Poles and Jews who share a
common spiritual world. Moreover, the divine mission of the two Israels is to bring about the
“Conversion” (nawrócenie) of the (Christian) Russian to common religious values’ (Opalski and
Bartal, Poles and Jews, p. 55).
18. First published in Pamiątki z 1863 roku (Lvov, 1869), pp. 5–109; see Gelber, Die Juden und der
polnische Aufstand, p. 170.
19. Meyer Balaban, ‘Di historische motivn in Y. Opatoshus In poylishe velder’, Bikhervelt 1922, pp.
518–23 (p. 522).
20. Cyprian Kamil Norwid, ‘Żydowie Polscy’, in Pisma wybrane, i, ed. by Juliusz Golumicki
(Warsaw: Państwowy Institut Wydawniczny, 1968), pp. 487–88.
21. English translation quoted after Harold B. Segel, Stranger in Our Midst: Images of the Jew in Polish
Literature (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), p. 89.
22. Cf. Adam Mickiewicz, Dzieła, xii (Warszawa: Czytelnik, 1997), p. 10:
23. Martin Buber, ‘Zur Geschichte der nationalen Idee’ (1949), in Der Jude und sein Judentum:
Gesammelte Aufsätze und Reden, 2nd edn. (Gerlingen: Schneider, 1993), pp. 313–16. Buber points
out parallels in the historiosophical concept of Adam Mickiewicz and the Jewish philosopher
Nachman Krochmal.
24. Opatoshu may have thought of Józef Antoni Poniatowski, nephew of Stanislaus II August, the
last King of Poland. Poniatowski took part in Kościuszko’s uprising against tsarist Russia in 1794
and is venerated as a national hero in Poland.
25. See Balaban, ‘Di historishe motivn’, p. 523, and Gelber, Die Juden und der polnische Aufstand, pp.
224–25.
26. Opalski and Bartal, Poles and Jews, p. 7:
Ach! Ty wybrany z ludu wybranego
Abyś dwa ludy na wieki połączył
Ślub dwóch narodów krwią swą dokończył.
[Oh, you chosen among the chosen people | To unite forever the two nations | To seal
by blood their eternal union.]
27. Żeromski ranked among the Polish writers as the ‘conscience of the Polish nation’. He was listed
for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1924. Eventually, his colleague Sienkiewicz won it. For
further information on Żeromski see Portraits, ed. by Karl Dedecius (Zürich: Ammann, 2000),
pp. 1019–25.
28. See Stefan Żeromski, ‘Echa leśne’, in Dzieła, iv (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1957), pp. 77–91. The
aesthetic similarities and the treatment of the Polish–Jewish relationship by Opatoshu und
Żeromski deserve further exploration.
29. Stefan Żeromski. Rozdzióbią nas kruki, wrony ... (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1956), pp. 51–60.
30. Aleksandr Gercen, ‚Resurrexit’, Kolokol, 28 January 1863, in Sobranie sochinenii v tritsati tomach,
xvi (Moscow: Akademii Nauk, 1959), p. 26.
31. See Matthew Hoffman, From Rebel to Rabbi: Reclaiming Jesus and the Making of Modern Jewish
Culture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007), esp. pp. 117–69.
32. Hoffman, From Rebel to Rabbi, p. 125.
33. See Gerardo Cunico, Messianismus bei Mickiewicz (Tübingen: Universität, Slavisches Seminar,
1998), p. 8.
34. Napoleon’s encounter with Mordkhe’s grandfather in the novel is mere fiction, see Balaban, ‘Di
historishe motivn’, p. 522.
35. Ibid., p. 519. Leo Kenig compares Opatoshu’s manner of mixing together historical facts and
legends with An-ski’s; Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, p. 49). According to Meyer Balaban, the figure
of Reb Itshe is a mere fiction. The description of Reb Mendele’s funeral is based on a legend
about the burial of Rabbi Yaakov Yitskhok, the Seer from Lublin, p. 522.
36. Mendele who had lived for about twenty years in seclusion from his court in Kotsk, is
experiencing a great crisis of faith because of the decline of Hasidism.
37. Martin Buber, Schriften zum Chassidismus, iii (Munich: Kösel, 1963), p. 145; cf. Opatoshu, In
poylishe velder, p. 342.
38. For a comprehensive description of the Polish river goddess Wanda see Katarzyna Marciniak, ‘Die
Legende von Königin Wanda als Spiegel des deutsch-polnischen Verhältnisses’, Mittellateinisches
Jahrbuch, 43 (2008), 393–412.
39. Cf. Erik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, pp. 304, 307, and Leo Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu’, p. 49. By
including historical personas and ‘great’ history, Opatoshu goes, according to Kenig, beyond
the historical novels of Sholem Asch and Itshe Meyer Vaysenberg (ibid.). For a detailed analysis
of Opatoshu’s rewriting of Jewish mysticism and Peretz’s short story Tsvishn tsvey berg see Jan
Schwarz’s chapter in this volume.
40. For a detailed intertextual analysis between In poylishe velder and Dostoevsky’s Bratia Karamazovy
(The Brothers Karamazov) see Harriet Murav’s chapter in this volume.
41. ‘Vu iz Opatoshu’, p. 50.
42. According to Leo Kenig, the barefooted, half-crazy Yisroel is a Jewish ‘yurodivy’ (God’s fool)
(‘Vu iz Opatoshu’, p. 50). He reminds one of his female, Dostoevskian counterpart Lebjadkina.
43. Komarowski, a fighter for the common Polish-Jewish cause and admirer of Jewish culture (and
of Felicia in particular), is Opatoshu’s positive version of Polish aristocracy. This means a shift
in the perception of the Polish nobility and the relevance of the Polish insurrections for the
East European Jews. According to Mikhail Krutikov, a Polish aristocrat in Jewish literature of
the 1870s is ‘an absolutely negative symbol of the old order’, whereas ‘the criticism of Russia
is milder: only Russian bureaucracy is perceived as an obstacle in the way of progress’; see his
84 Sabine Koller
Yiddish Fiction and the Crisis of Modernity, 1905–1914 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001),
p. 71. Mickiewicz’s and Żeromski’s works were also inf luential in Sholem Asch’s second part of
the trilogy Farn mabl (Before the Flood, 1930) entitled Varshe (Warsaw).
44. Adam Mickiewicz, Forefathers (London: The Polish Cultural Foundation, 1986), pp. 165–78.
Translated into English verse by Count Potocki of Montalk. See Hans-Peter Hoelscher-
Obermeier, Adam Mickiewicz: Literatur und Politik (Tübingen: Universität, Slavisches Seminar,
1998), p. 11.
45. Walter Schamschula, ‘Nachwort des Übersetzers’, in Adam Mickiewicz, Die Ahnenfeier. Ein
Poem. Zweisprachige Ausgabe, ed. by Walter Schamschula (Cologne, Weimar, and Vienna: Böhlau,
1991), p. 496.
46. Ibid., p. 495.
47. Mickiewicz, Forefathers, p. 214.
48. See Schamschula, ‘Nachwort des Übersetzers’, pp. 496–97.
49. Maria Janion, ‘Vorwort’, in Polnische Romantik: Ein literarisches Lesebuch (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhr
kamp, 1998), pp. 9–42 (p. 9).
50. For a period of time, the Towianism attracted Mickiewicz, but also the pro-Jewish historian
Joachim Lelewel and Frédéric Chopin. This is also demonstrated by Mickiewicz in his lectures
on the literatures of the Slavs at the Collège de France between 1840 and 1844. In 1844 his
permission to teach was withdrawn (Schamschula, ‘Nachwort des Übersetzers’, pp. 487–88).
51. Adam Mickiewicz, Dzieła, xiii (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 2001), p. 235.
52. His major works are Prodrome du messianisme, révélation des destinées de l’humanité (1831), Messianisme:
union finale de la philosophie et de la religion (1831–39), and Philosophie absolue de l’histoire (1852). For
further information see Adam Sikora, Posłannicy słowa: Hoëné-Wroński, Towiański, Mickiewicz
(Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1967). As Walter Schamschula states,
‘[m]essianic ideas’ were at that time quite common in other parts of Europe, especially
in France in the philosophy of history by Michelet and in Italy with the teachings of
Mazzini; Hegel’s philosophy of history shows also traces of messianism.
(Schamschula, ‘Nachwort des Übersetzers’, p. 497).
53. Hess develops his first socialist ideas in his Die heilige Geschichte der Menschheit (1837).
54. Along with the historical-philosophical approach of Krochmal and the substance-metaphysical
one of Samuel Hirsch, Hess promotes a political ‘philosophy of the deed’.
55. See Helmut J. Heil, Die neuen Propheten (Fürth and Erlangen: Ner Tamid, 1969), pp. 15–18.
Theodor Herzl highly praised Moses Hess: ‘Since Spinoza, the Jews have not produced a greater
thinker than this forgotten, faded Moses Hess’ (p. 18).
56. Dirk Westerkamp, Die philonische Unterscheidung: Aufklärung, Orientalismus und Konstruktion der
Philosophie (Munich: Fink, 2009), pp. 145–90 (p. 171). The Jewish Hegelians Nachman Kroch
mal, Samuel Hirsch, and Moses Hess reintegrate a philosophia judaeorum into the European history
of philosophy and, by doing so, Judaism into the historical process; Karl Grözinger, Jüdisches
Denken. Theologie, Philosophie, Mystik, iii: Von der Religionskritik der Renaissance zu Orthodoxie und
Reform im 19. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt a. M.: Campus, 2009), p. 539. Opatoshu might have read
Moses Hess’s Rome and Jerusalem in G. Syrkin’s translation (1915); see Ber Borokhov, ‘Di yidishe
literature in yor 1915’, in Shprakh-forshung un literatur-geshikhte, ed. by Nakhmen Mayzel (Tel
Aviv: Farlag Y. L. Perets, 1966), pp. 316–21 (p. 320).
57. Nomberg complains about Mordkhe: ‘and within the entire wealth of colours, that the artist
bestowed upon him, we do not see him — not his inner being, we cannot even imagine his
face’ (‘Opatoshus “In poylishe velder” ’, p. 115).
58. Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu’, p. 54.
59. See Mikhail Bakhtin, Chronotopos (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2008), pp. 186–87.
60. Erik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, p. 304.
61. Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, p. 50.
62. It would like to thank Holger Nath for discussing the item of rukhnies and gashmies at a
colloquium at the Institute of Slavonic Studies in Regensburg.
63. Felicia, Strahl’s wife, concurs with Mordkhe’s decision to commit himself to the historical
process and to go abroad, because she, as an educated assimilated reader, shares his pro-Polish
romantic sentiment. However, at the end of In poylishe velder a distracted Felicia is reading Irydion
by Zygmunt Krasiński, which questions Polish efforts of insurrection against the oppressors
(p. 356). Irydion, published in 1836, is one of his great symbolist dramas and contains a hidden
polemic against Mickiewicz. A failed attack of conspirators in Irydion alludes to the failed
November rebellion of 1830 in Poland. Here Krasiński expresses his criticism towards the
patriotic enthusiasm of the youth, but also towards Mickiewicz, his Oda do młodości (Ode to the
youth, 1820) and the rebellious passages in the third part of The Forefathers; Wacław Kubacki,
‘Geschichte und “Historismus” im Irydion von Zygmunt Krasiński’, Welt der Slawen, 10 (1965),
369–82.
64. In Wierna rzeka, Count Józef Odrowąż decides, under the inf luence of his mother, against
marrying outside his social class. Instead of marrying Salomea, the daughter of a rebel, he
goes abroad in order to continue his struggle for a liberated Poland. Opatoshu’s In poylishe
velder confirms the statement uttered by Salomea, the heroine of Wierna rzeka: ‘[D]la ojczyzny
jest najpierwszy obowiązek polaka, a dopiero na drugiem miejscu stoi familia’ (the first duty
of a Pole is his fatherland, and his family comes second); Żeromski, Wierna rzeka (Wrocław:
Czytelnik, 1978), p. 30).
Chapter 6
v
In poylishe velder and

The Brothers Karamazov:
A Comparative Study
Harriet Murav
Joseph Opatoshu’s historical novel In poylishe velder, written during the First World
War and published in New York in 1921, looks back to the period leading to the
Polish rebellion of 1863. The hero, Mordechai, is the son of a Jewish manager of a
Polish nobleman’s forests. Mordechai grows up among Polish fisherman, familiar
with their legends and beliefs. He travels to Kotsk, where he encounters every
significant figure and trend in nineteenth-century Polish-Jewish life, including
a fictitious version of the Hasidic tsadik R. Mendel (1787–1859), Polish-Jewish
nationalists, and a leading Polish maskil, who is translating Goethe’s Faust into
Hebrew. Mordechai discovers the nascent Zionism of the period, through the
writings of Moses Hess, and is drawn into a circle of adherents of Shabbetai Zevi
and Jacob Frank. He becomes a defender of the Polish peasantry, attends the
deathbed of R. Mendel, and finally decides to leave Poland for Western Europe. In
poylishe velder is the first volume of a trilogy; the second volume, 1863, takes the hero
to Paris; the third, Aleyn, was published first in 1919. In poylishe velder was translated
into English, German, Russian, and Ukrainian, and received accolades from writers
and critics both in the West and in Soviet Russia.1
This essay explores the contexts of In poylishe velder, both within Jewish culture
and beyond it. I consider first the emphasis on history in the framework of Jewish
culture and literature in the first part of the twentieth century, and then turn to
the novel’s relation to Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Opatoshu and
Dostoevsky each provide a panoramic view of the Jewish and the Russian world,
respectively.2 The figure of the holy man is paramount in the work of both authors:
R. Mendel and Itshe in Opatoshu, and the elder Zosima in Dostoevsky; and each
plays a key role in the lives of the young heroes of the two novels, Mordechai and
Alesha, who confront political and social upheaval and the impact of new ideas
that challenge religious belief. Both novels consider the course of human history
on a grandiose, cosmic scale, and both explicitly refer to messianism. Dostoevsky
famously asks whether human history can be redeemed; Opatoshu affirms that it
can.
In poylishe velder and The Brothers K aramazov 87
The novels, furthermore, share a number of common plot elements, including

scenes of miraculous cures (of a klikusha, or, hysteric, in Dostoevsky and a girl
possessed by a dybbuk in Opatoshu), the appearance of the Grand Inquisitor, the
Devil’s temptation of Jesus to turn stones into bread, a discussion of non-Euclidean
geometry, the problem of free will, and other episodes and motifs, which I will touch
on later in the essay. Opatoshu’s familiarity with Dostoevsky can be definitively
established; he refers to the Russian author and the Russian title of Dostoevsky’s
Demons as well as to a character from The Brothers Karamazov in his 1920 novel
Hibru (Hibru).3 A comparison of In poylishe velder and The Brothers Karamazov helps
shed light on the nature of Opatoshu’s project, especially in relation to other Jewish
writers and thinkers working in the interwar period.
Searching for the Jewish Past

The time of the novel’s completion and publication, the first quarter of the twentieth
century, saw war, revolution, the collapse of empires, the emergence of new political
ideologies and new nations, the massive immigration of East European Jews to
Western Europe and North America, including Opatoshu’s own immigration to
the United States in 1907. These events undoubtedly heightened Opatoshu’s sense
that the thread linking the Jewish past to the present had become frayed. In a letter
to Opatoshu from 1930, the renowned Soviet critic Yitskhak Nusinov focuses on
precisely this point, but in a negative light. He asks ‘whether it is possible to write
about that which is dying out’.4 Nusinov characterized Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder
in a similar vein for the Russian-language Literary Encyclopedia published in Moscow
in the 1930s, in which Nusinov criticized Opatoshu’s ‘petit bourgeois idealization
of the past’.5
The fragile link to the past and the strong sense of an ending resound throughout
the novel. The first part, for example, entitled ‘In the Woods’, describes the passing
of an era; as Opatoshu puts it, ‘in the good old days’, when Mordechai’s great-
grandfather was alive, the entire extended family would gather at Hanukah to eat,
drink, quarrel, and arrange marriages for their children. Mordechai realizes that
his father, uneducated but deeply knowledgeable about the forest, comfortable with
Hasids and illiterate Polish fisherman, quick-tempered, but also generous to Jews
and non-Jews alike, is the last of his kind: ‘with his father practically the whole
family came to an end’.6 Opatoshu explicitly addresses the link between past and
present in the final chapter of the first part of the novel, tellingly titled ‘Threads’.
Mordechai enters an old shul, and keenly senses the presence of his ancestors who
would ‘never die, but would remain in the old shul, having spun their stories from
generation to generation’. They would extend their threads and ‘weave themselves
into a protective shield around Mordechai [...] and no matter where he was, they
would lead him back home’ (p. 104). It is difficult to imagine that Opatoshu is not
inserting himself into these ‘threads’ of memory and legend. As Sol Liptzin points
out, Opatoshu’s father claimed descent from a follower of the ‘messianic visionary’
Shlomo Molkho; his mother’s side of the family were timber merchants, as is the
paternal side of Mordechai’s family in In poylishe velder.7 The author clearly wove his
own family history into the fabric of the novel.
88 Harriet Murav
Writing in 1928 for Di yidishe velt (The Yiddish World), one of the leading Jewish
journals of the time, the critic Max Erik praised In Polish Woods for its roots in the
Jewish literary tradition before the First World War, in particular, the writing of
Yitskhok Leybush Peretz. Erik argued, furthermore, that the novel’s exploration of
the historical past was part of a larger tendency. Erik put it this way:
With our feet in the past and our faces turned toward the future, we hear the
rustle of the wings of time all around us; the thirst for a historical comprehension
of reality is felt everywhere, in scholarship, art, and philosophy.8
There is abundant evidence for Erik’s claim about the importance of history among
Jewish writers at the time.
Opatoshu’s interest in the historical past was part of a larger tendency among
the Jewish intelligentsia in the early years of the twentieth century. The Jewish
Historical-Ethnographic Society, founded by Shimon Dubnov and S. An-sky, and
An-sky’s ethnographic expeditions in the Pale of Settlement before the First World
War, are prominent examples of this fascination with the past. An-sky’s interest
in material objects, folklore and other artefacts of Jewish culture was based on
his awareness that Jewish society in the Pale was undergoing profound change,
and hence that the opportunity to collect information — and thus to preserve
traditional Jewish culture — would soon expire.9 Salvage ethnography was not
his only motivation, however. An-sky also believed that knowledge of Jewish folk
and religious culture could be the basis for an entirely new form of Jewish secular
art. His play, The Dybbuk, with its representations of Jewish customs, including
the marriage ceremony, its tales of wonder-working rabbis, and its depiction of
an exorcism, fulfilled his own prescription for a modern, secular, but nonetheless
Jewish culture, grounded in knowledge of the Jewish past.10
Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder can be seen in a similar light. Like An-sky, Opatoshu
transforms Jewish religious culture into an aesthetic object. The evocation of the
real-life R. Mendel of Kotsk, the depictions of Frankist practices, and the extensive
description of mystical and messianic visions, including those drawn from Lurianic
Kabbalah — transform real-life practice and belief into secular art. In an essay he
wrote in 1922 Opatoshu said that Shabbetai Zevi and Shlomo Molkho ‘created
Jewish biography, all of this remains in Hebrew and Yiddish literature; only the
form, the garment has changed’.11 It is logical to conclude that Opatoshu was
including his own work in this statement, that he saw himself as preserving the
‘spark’ of Hasidism in his literary creations, not for the purpose of repairing the
world, but rather, for the purpose of carrying Jewish culture forward to succeeding
generations and in the new world. As Erik points out, the novel’s broad readership
included both assimilated Jews and Hasids.12 The boundary between secular and
religious culture is not necessarily hard and fast: Martin Buber’s publication of
Hasidic tales in the early 1900s straddles this divide.
The greatest innovation of Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder, according to Erik, was
the introduction of ‘the tragic figure’ of Mendel of Kotsk into Jewish literature.
Menachem Mendel Morgenstern was a Hasidic tsadik who fought against the very
institution of the tsadik as a holy man. The emphasis on the holiness of the tsadik’s
person, his emotional involvement in the life of the community, feats of miraculous
healing, and other wonder-working acts were repugnant to R. Mendel.13 In

Opatoshu’s novel, R. Mendel sarcastically tells a butcher that a group of crows
picking at offal in the courtyard are the reincarnation of the ‘accursed souls’ of
butchers, revealing, as Hersh David Nomberg said in his article on In poylishe velder,
the rabbi’s scepticism about reincarnation.14 R. Mendel characterizes most of his
followers as ‘oxen’, who would willingly renounce their free will, handing over the
direction of their lives to him (p. 180). The real-life R. Mendel stopped accepting
petitions (kvitlekh) from his followers, a fact ref lected in In poylishe velder, because,
as the novel explains, he believed that Hasidism had sunk to the level of ‘miracle
legends’ (mitsves-mayses, p. 170). R. Mendel attempted to restore to the Hasidism of
his own time a new emphasis on rabbinic scholarship. He spent the last twenty years
of his life in self-enforced seclusion, devoting himself to Kabbalah and philosophy.
Opatoshu’s novel includes a scene in which R. Mendel upbraids the saintly R.
Itshe for exorcising a dybbuk from a young woman. R. Mendel did not believe
in fixed times for prayer, and when Mordechai arrives in Kotsk, he is shocked to
discover that R. Mendel has suspended these rules. Two of his followers stop using
phylacteries in order to test the cosmic consequences of their act: ‘for three days
they did not lay tfilin to see what change this would have on the order of the world’
(p. 180). This experimentation with Hasidic tikkun (‘repair’ or ‘restoration’) reveals
doubt concerning its efficacy.15 The real-life R. Mendel experienced a crisis in his
own belief; in the novel he cries out, ‘There is no judgment and no judge’ (p. 136).
On his deathbed he attempts to reconstruct his one-page treatise on human life,
titled Sefer ha-Adam (The Book of Man), after he burned it together with his other
writings. The effort fails.
The recitation of these facts, available from biographies of R. Mendel, however,
does not do justice to Opatoshu’s portrait of him. Opatoshu uses the devices of realist
fiction, specifically the depiction of the protagonist’s psychological interiority, to
provide a three-dimensional picture of R. Mendel’s awareness of himself and his
failure. After years of seclusion, R. Mendel steps out into the courtyard, where his
followers, no longer young, have been waiting for him. He feels himself growing
younger and stronger; the thoughts that had been depressing him melt away; he
feels that he is soaring above the earth, ready to ‘bestow’ on the world his new
word, ready to ‘be revealed’ (‘itst geyt er nisgole vern’, p. 178). The ‘vessel’ and
the word will be born, and the Hasids who surround him will imbibe the mere
ref lection of his new truth. Darkness, however, follows this moment of ecstasy; R.
Mendel sees a strange and terrible creature appear before him, who beats him over
the head, and he sinks back to earth (pp. 178–79). Elsewhere in the novel, Opatoshu
describes R. Mendel’s doubts about his capacities to utter his new ‘word’. Opatoshu
transforms the mystical notion of the ascent and descent of the soul into an interior,
psychological process of exaltation and despair.
Dostoevsky and The Brothers Karamazov

While Erik praises Opatoshu for introducing the ‘tragic figure’ of R. Mendel into
the pages of Yiddish literature for the first time, Opatoshu, however, was not the
90 Harriet Murav
first author to make a religious figure a prominent element in a secular literary

work. Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, first published serially in 1879, includes
an entire book titled ‘The Russian Monk’, in which the life, death, and belief of
the fictitious elder Zosima appear. Book 6, Dostoevsky wrote, was the culminating
point of the novel, because it was the response to Ivan Karamazov’s critique of
theodicy, both in his recitation of cases of child abuse and in his ‘Legend of the
Grand Inquisitor’.16 The fictitious Zosima is a synthetic figure, in part based on
the elder Ambrosii, whom Dostoevsky visited at the Optina Pustyn’ Monastery in
1878.17 Another prototype for Zosima is Tikhon of Zadonsk, who suffered from
certain unspecified ‘nervous diseases’, including fits of depression alternating with
moments of extreme happiness.18 There are clear parallels in the life-histories of the
prototypes that Dostoevsky and Opatoshu drew upon for their respective portraits
of holy men.
In addition, however, there are parallel elements not derived from real-life
histories. Both Zosima, in The Brothers Karamazov and R. Mendel, in In poylishe
velder, face challenges to their authority from rival figures. Father Ferapont, who
lives on bread and water and wears heavy chains to mortify his f lesh, accuses
Zosima of unsuitable indulgences, including tea with jam and visits from women;
‘Barefoot Yisroel’ (who as is nickname implies, never wears shoes, whose clothes are
torn, and who, like Ferapont, accuses others of moral failings), tells R. Mendel to
his face that he must undergo penance. Ivan’s fictitious Grand Inquisitor tells Christ
that the Christian model of freedom is beyond the capacities of human beings, who
long ago handed over their free will to the Church. R. Mendel says that even if
man had free will, ‘he long ago handed it over to us’ (‘oyb er hot zi [pkhire] afile
yo gehat, hot er zi shoyn lang ibergegebn unz in di hent arayn’, p. 172). In contrast,
however, to the Grand Inquisitor, who announces that he is no longer working for
God, Mendel of Kotsk does not change allegiances in the same way.
In both The Brothers Karamazov and In poylishe velder, the death and posthumous
condition of the holy man’s body is occasion for controversy. When the elder
Zosima dies, an odour emanates from his corpse, ‘the odour of corruption’.19 Father
Ferapont and other monks understand the bad smell as evidence confirming their
negative judgement of Zosima. For Alesha the stench causes a crisis of faith, which
he ultimately overcomes. When R. Mendel dies, and his body begins to decay, a
Hasid affirms that the dead body of a holy man should smell as pleasant as the ‘most
precious spices [because] a Tsadik’s corpse belongs to the category of “holy f lesh” ’
(p. 347). ‘Barefoot Yisroel’, like Father Ferapont, proclaims that the evidence of the
bad smell reveals R. Mendel’s failings.
Messianism is a significant theme for Dostoevsky in the 1870s. In 1876, he had
written an essay titled ‘The Utopian Understanding of History’. Russia’s conquest
of Constantinople, according to Dostoevsky, would be ‘the genuine new exaltation
of Christ’s cross and the definitive word of Orthodoxy, at the head of which Russia
has long stood’.20 This passage suggests that Dostoevsky understands Russia’s action
in history as a new form of Christ-like recapitulation, in other words, a form of
salvation history in which the beginning and the end mirror each other. In 1880,
while he was working on The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky delivered his famous
Pushkin speech, in which he said that the task of Russia was to ‘utter the definitive
word of great universal harmony’. Notwithstanding Russia’s present condition as a
‘beggarly, coarse land’, it was ‘pre-ordained to utter [its] new word’.21 Dostoevsky’s
version of messianism, which includes an element of holy foolishness — the exaltation
of ‘beggarly, coarse’ Russia — is fairly specific to Dostoevsky, not part of a larger
trend in the 1870s in tsarist Russia. Some scholars have characterized Dostoevsky’s
messianism as derived from Jewish sources.22 Dostoevsky’s idiosyncratic picture of
the future offered a path towards salvation both for Russia, which he characterized
as ‘tottering over a precipice’, and for what he believed was an increasingly
fragmented and unstable Europe, no longer a vital civilization, but a graveyard of
cultural treasures (as Ivan Karamazov puts it). Zosima characterizes the Russian
people collectively as a ‘Christ-bearing’ nation.
Dostoevsky had previously written about Russia’s role in salvation history along
similar lines, exploring the link between messianism, folk belief, and radical politics
in the 1870s. Left-wing Russian revolutionaries also took an interest in the beliefs
of sectarian groups such as the skoptsi (castrates), who held that their leaders were
messianic figures. In Dostoevsky’s novel Demons, the nihilist revolutionary Pyotr
Verkhovenskii describes his plan to cast Stavrogin in the role of ‘the messiah in
hiding’ in order to overthrow the tsarist government: ‘you are a beauty, proud,
like God, seeking nothing for yourself, with a halo of sacrifice, you have “hidden
yourself ” ’.23 Opatoshu’s Mordkhe, who conceals his identity to defend the Polish
peasantry, plays a similar role: no one knows his name or birthplace; the priests
say he is a Jew, the peasants, a Catholic. He is also associated with the figure of
Antichrist, whose appearance, the priests say, heralds the second coming: ‘the priests
in their sermons unceasingly comforted their congregants by saying that salvation
was near, and the sign was that the accursed Antichrist was moving about in the
villages’ (p. 338).
Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder, like The Brothers Karamazov and Demons, is similarly
steeped in mysticism and messianism. Opatoshu refers to the death of the Messiah
Son of Joseph; he includes lengthy expositions of Lurianic Kabbala, in which the
‘sparks of God’ are trapped in evil thoughts and sunk in materiality; the greater
the sin, the higher the penitent becomes in overcoming it (p. 100). Some of
the characters in the novel are followers of Shabbetai Zevi and Jacob Frank. R.
Mendel’s granddaughter Dushne is married to the great-grandson of Jonathan
Eibeschuetz, a real-life historical figure (1690–1764) with links to Sabbateanism
(p. 188).24 Dushne dances half-naked together with other Hasids, men and women
together, in an enactment of the embrace of sin peculiar to Frankism (p. 252).
Mordechai participates in these ecstatic rituals. The union of the Shekhina with
God is explicitly described as sexual intercourse. Mordechai at one point takes
on the guise of Shlomo Molkho, the Jewish converso (convert) who returned to
Judaism, believing himself to be the Messiah; Mordechai also has a vision of Joseph
Karo’s maggid, a preacher, who instructs him to leave Poland. Mordechai encounters
Polish messianism in the recitation of an alternative version of Adam Mieckewicz’s
‘The Great Improvisation’.
Near the end of the novel, Mordechai has a vision of the fall of ancient Rome. A
92 Harriet Murav
great fire f lares up, ‘consuming building after building’:

Iber di khurves shteyt a yid, shteyt er, ruft tsu zikh di dershlogene, di hungerige,
di gepeynigte, reyst di shluzen, brekht di dambenm ferpleytst di erd, makht alts
khurev, der mentsh, a naketer, a nay-geboygener zol vayter kenen shpinen gots
fodem. Dem yidishen fodem, vos iz nokh nisht ibergerisen gevoren.
[Above the destruction stands a Jew, he stands there and calls to the oppressed,
the hungry, the tortured, breaks open the sluices, collapses the dam, f looding
over the earth and destroying everything so that man, naked, and new-born
could further spin God’s thread, the Jewish thread, which had not yet been
torn.] (emphasis in original, p. 305)
This apocalyptic vision of a new Jewish saviour has its basis in Moses Hess’s Rome
and Jerusalem (1862), to which Opatoshu explicitly refers in the chapter title in
which this vision occurs. Hess (1812–65), is credited with developing a socialist
vision of society before Marx and a Zionist vision for Jewish society before Herzl.25
According to Hess, Judaism and Jews hold a unique place in human history. In
the ninth letter of Rome and Jerusalem, Hess asserts that Judaism is the source for
the ‘humanitarian view of life’.26 Just as the Jews brought the world Jesus, so in
the future, Jews would once again provide for the regeneration of humanity. This
utopian future was not far off; Hess writes that humanity was poised ‘on the eve
of the Sabbath of History’. As Kenneth Koltun-Fromm writes, characterizing
Hess, ‘Jerusalem — as the eternal city of a Jewish state — marks the beginning
of universal redemption: the particular Jewish state inaugurates the humanitarian
movement toward a socialist utopia’.27 Mordechai’s vision shares with Hess a
particularly Jewish but also universal humanitarianism, which would provide the
basis for a new type of human society.
The messianism and mysticism of In poylishe velder is part of a larger trend
characteristic of leading Jewish figures of the first part of the twentieth century.
Martin Buber, Gershom Scholem, Walter Benjamin, and Meir Wiener produced
artistic and scholarly work dedicated to these themes.28 The messianism of German
Jews in the period after the First World War, however, according to Anson Rabinbach,
who focuses on Benjamin and Ernst Bloch, was apocalyptic and catastrophic. For
these German Jewish intellectuals, the utopian restoration would not be produced
by history, and gradual change, reform, evolution, and even revolution, could
not produce the desired result.29 In contrast, nihilism and the impulse to ‘hasten
the end’ are not characteristic of Hess, Dostoevsky — or of Opatoshu. In a letter
of 1879, Dostoevsky declared that ‘all of socialism emerged and began with the
rejection of sense in historical reality’.30 The Russian author embodies this concept
in the figure of Ivan Karamazov, who uses the suffering of innocent children as a
challenge to theodicy. What Dostoevsky deplores is the fulcrum of the messianism
that Rabinbach describes. The sense of absurdity in historical reality, the ‘complete
repudiation of the world as it is’, as Rabinbach puts it, is key to the messianism of
Bloch and Benjamin. In contrast, the messianism of In poylishe velder is optimistic,
more in line with Hess’s attitudes from 1862, and Dostoevsky’s in the late 1870s. In
both Dostoevsky and Opatoshu, messianism is linked to the positive sense of cosmic
union, union with nature, and social harmony, access to which is to be had in the
here and now, and not at the moment of the world’s destruction. The redemption
of humanity was to come from within the normal course of human history. For
both Dostoevsky and Opatoshu crisis and catastrophe were not only not necessary
to human salvation, they were antithetical to it.
Evidence of this attitude can be seen in Dostoevsky’s and Opatoshu’s description
of Zosima and R. Mendel, respectively. Mordechai’s response to the death of R.
Mendel shows striking parallels to Dostoevsky’s depiction of Alesha’s response to
Zosima’s death. Alesha, his faith having been tested by the posthumous stench of
the dead elder, listens to the reading of the Gospels. He leaves the elder’s room
and, while outside, falls to the ground, as if struck, and waters the earth with his
tears: ‘in his rapture he wept even for the stars that shone on him from the abyss
[...] it was as if threads from all those innumerable worlds of God came together in
his soul, and it was trembling all over, touching other worlds’.31 In this scene, the
greatest challenge to Alesha’s faith — the stink that comes from Zosima’s body — is
transformed into the greatest possible affirmation of faith.
Mordechai also experiences an episode of ecstatic weeping on the occasion of R.
Mendel’s death:
The longer Mordechai recited the passages from the Zohar (tikune-zoyher) the
more he wept. He wept from the joy (khedve) that his heart was purifying itself,
he shook from joy, felt a connection to the stars that shone from unknown
worlds. (p. 262)
Mordechai comes to, so to speak, and realizes that he was listening to R. Itshe read
from the Zohar, and not reciting them himself. His moment of union with the
cosmos occurs in exactly the same way as Alesha’s does. Mordechai concludes that
everyone he has thus far encountered, including the Frankists, the followers of R.
Mendel and those who oppose him, and the Polish nationalists — are ‘all correct!’
The emphasis on the harmonious reconciliation of opposites is a rejection of
apocalyptic messianism, ref lecting an attitude that is closer to Dostoevsky’s ‘utopian
understanding of history’. There are no conf licts that cannot be overcome.
This sense of possibility and optimism about the future may have been a factor
in Peretz Markish’s positive response to the novel. In his correspondence with
Opatoshu, Markish urged Opatoshu to visit the Soviet Union to see the new life
that was being built there. He interpreted In poylishe velder as indirectly expressing
support for the building of socialism and the development of Jewish national culture
in the USSR. In a letter to Opatoshu from 1931, Markish wrote: ‘even if we should
have to perish [...] it would be for a new, great, unheard of radiant world from the
future’.32 Self-sacrifice and even monumental destruction will produce utopia. This
forward-looking eschatology is key to Markish’s vision, as it is to the messianism of
Opatoshu’s novel. After taking up the cause of the Polish peasantry, Mordechai will
become a revolutionary. Some scholars believe this was to have been Alesha’s fate in
the second, unwritten volume of The Brothers Karamazov, hinted at in the preface,
in which the narrator talks about the ‘second, main novel’, in relation to which the
present volume provides the prehistory, set thirteen years earlier.33
94 Harriet Murav
Conclusion
It is instructive to compare Opatoshu’s In poylishe velder to other Yiddish hist
orical novels. Der Nister’s Di Mishpokhe Mashber (The Family Mashber), published in
Moscow in 1939, also looks back to Jewish life in the tsarist empire in the 1860s,
and also touches on the atmosphere created by the Polish uprising of 1863, as well
as various forms of Hasidic belief and practice. In contrast to Opatoshu, however,
Der Nister emphasizes, as his title indicates, the ‘crisis’ (mashber in Hebrew) that
splits the family into two opposing camps, and the conf licts that riddle the Jewish
community as a whole. Sudden change, rupture, and collapse are essential to the
novel. Furthermore, Der Nister underscores the gulf separating the present from
the past. In the opening paragraph of the novel, he writes: ‘The world, depicted
in this volume, with its entire economic base and, by the same token, all its social
and ideological conf licts and interests, has disappeared without a trace’.34 David
Bergelson, to give another example, also uses the figure of Shlomo Molkho in his
1946 play, Prints Reuveni (Prince Reuveni). Bergelson’s use of this messianic figure
of the past, however, in contrast to Opatoshu, only underscores the missed moment
of salvation in the present: the grim picture that survivors of the Second World
War confronted. Instead of foregrounding discontinuity with the past, Opatoshu’s
In poylishe velder looks back to a time that no longer exists in order to look forward
to the coming of a new world. The ‘threads’ may be fragile, but they do not break.
For Opatoshu, there is no catastrophic rupture with the past. What has happened
in previous periods of history is available in the present, as if the diachronic axis
of time had been transformed into the synchronic axis. Every historical period is
available all at once.
The result is that the narrative, full of dramatic events, has a strangely static
quality, which Erik hints at in his characterization of the novel as a ‘museum of
legends’.35 To use another phrase from Erik that I mentioned in the beginning
of the essay, we do not ‘hear the rustle of the wings of time’ in Opatoshu’s novel,
because nothing has been lost or destroyed. Nomberg also criticized Opatoshu for
failing to create a sense of the past in the novel, writing that ‘the events and figures
are set forth as if on a cinematic film, lacking inner development and growth’.36
Choosing one path does not mean that another has been foreclosed; on the contrary,
the contradictions can co-exist. The easy accumulation of episodes from disparate
periods of Jewish history — represented in the novel as a series of tableaux vivants
— allows for optimism about a future in which the past will have been preserved
in its entirety.
Notes to Chapter 6
1. See, for example, Joseph Opatoshu, In Polish Woods, trans. by Isaac Goldberg (Philadelphia: The
Jewish Publication Society, 1938).
2. Their representation of Poles and Poland differs widely. For a recent discussion of the evolution
of Dostoevsky’s views on Poland, see Edyta Bojanowska, ‘Empire by Consent: Strakhov,
Dostoevskii, and the Polish Uprising of 1863’, Slavic Review, 71 (2012), 1–24.
3. One of the characters recommends that Demons should be taught in school to combat socialism,
and at the very end of the novel the name of Smerdiakov, a character from The Brothers Karamazov,
is mentioned. See Yoysef Opatoshu, Hibru (New York: Maks N. Meyzel, 1920), pp. 68, 275.
4. Mordechai Altshuler, Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers ( Jerusalem: Hebreyisher Universitet in
Yerusholayim,1979), p. 357.
5. Yitskhak Nusinov, ‘Opatoshu’, in Literaturnaia entsiklopediia, ed. by A. V. Lunacharskii
(Moscow: Izdatel’stvo kommunisticheskoi akademii, 1934). <http://slovari.yandex.ru/~icnigi/
Lit.%20entsiklopediia/Opatoshu/> [accessed 24 June 2013].
6. Yoysef Opatoshu, In Poylishe velder: Roman (New York: Maks N. Mayzel, 1921), p. 32. All
citations are from this volume, and unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own.
Henceforth citations will be given in the body of text by page number only.
7. Sol Liptzin, A History of Yiddish Literature (Middle Village: Jonathan David Publishers, 1985), p.
166.
8. Maks Erik, ‘Yosef Opatoshus trilogye’, Di yidishe velt, 5 (1928), 271–81 (p. 275).
9. For discussions of the ethnographic expeditions, see Photographing the Jewish Nation: Pictures from
S. An-Sky’s Ethnographic Expeditions, ed. by Eugune M. Avrutin and others (Waltham: Brandeis
University Press, 2009), and The Worlds of S. An-Sky: A Russian Jewish Intellctual at the Turn of the
Century, ed. by Gabriella Safran and Steven Zipperstein (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
2006).
10. For a study of An-ski’s life and work, see Gabriella Safran, Wandering Soul: The Dybbuk’s Creator,
S. An-Sky (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010).
11. Yoysef Opatoshu, Yidish un yidishkayt: Eseyen (Toronto: G. Pomerants: 1949), p. 78.
12. Erik, ‘Yosef Opatoshus trilogye’, p. 274.
13. I base my account on Joseph Fox, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk: A Biographical Study of the
Chasidic Master (New York: Bash Publications, 1988); Gershom Scholem, The Messianic Idea in
Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (New York: Schocken Books, 1995), pp. 210,
14. Hersh David Nomberg, ‘Opatoshus “In Poylishe Velder”’, Bikher-velt, 1 (1922), 117–18.
15. For a discussion of tikkun, see Gershom Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (New York:
Schocken Books, 1971), pp. 273–76.
16. Fyodor Dostoevsky, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v 30-ti tomakh (Leningrad: Nauka, 1972–1984), xv,
426.
17. For a comparison between Amvrosii and Zosima, see Sven Linner, Starets Zosima In ’The Brothers
Karamazov’: A Study in the Mimesis of Virtue (Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell International
Publishers, 1975), pp. 87–101.
18. For a discussion, see Harriet Murav, Holy Foolishness: Dostoevsky’s Novels and the Poetics of Cultural
Critique (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1992), p. 155.
19. Dostoevsky, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii V 30-ti tomakh, xv, 295.
20. Ibid., xxiii, 50.
21. Ibid., xxvi, 148.
22. See, for example, David Goldstein, Dostoevsky and the Jews (Austin: University of Texas Press,
1981), p. 55.
23. Ibid., x, 325.
24. For a discussion of Eibeschuetz, see Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, p. 321.
25. For an overview of Hess’s life and work, see Jonathan Frankel, ‘“The Communist Rabbi”:
Moses Hess’, Commentary, 41 (1966), 77–81; and for a discussion that sees both threads of Hess’s
thought in his early writing, see Shlomo Avineri, ‘Socialism and Judaism in Moses Hess’s Holy
History of Mankind’, Review of Politics, 45 (1983), 234–53.
26. Moses Hess, ‘Rome and Jerusalem: The Last National Question’ (Wikisource, The Free Library),
<http://www.en.wikisource.org/wiki/Rome_and_ Jerusalem> [accessed 4 February 2013].
27. Kenneth Koltun-Fromm, ‘A Narrative Reading of Moses Hess’s Return to Judaism’, Modern
Judaism, 19 (1999), 41–65 (p. 44).
28. For a discussion of messianism in Wiener, see Mikhail Krutikov, From Kabbalah to Class Struggle:
Expressionism, Marxism, and Yiddish Literature in the Life and Work of Meir Wiener (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2011), pp. 49–50, 75–78.
29. See Anson Rabinbach, ‘Between Enlightenment and Apocalypse: Benjamin, Bloch and Modern
German Jewish Messianism’, New German Critique, 34 (1985), 78–124.
96 Harriet Murav
30. Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, ed. by Ralph Matlaw, trans. by Constance Garnett
and Ralph Matlaw (New York: W. W. Norton, 1976), p. 757.
31. Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky
(San Francisco: Northpoint Press, 1990), p. 362.
33. Dostoevsky, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v 30-ti tomakh, xiv, 6; the editor Aleksei Suvorin recounts
in his diary of 1903 that Dostoevsky told him that Alesha Karamazov would become a
revolutionary and would commit a political crime (Aleksei Suvorin, Dnevnik Alekseia Sergeevicha
Suvorina (Moscow: Nezavisimaia gazeta, 1999), p. 454).
34. Der Nister, Di Mishpokhe Mashber, 2 vols. (New York: Ikuf, 1948), ii, p. 21.
35. Erik, ‘Yosef Opatoshus trilogye’, p. 276.
36. Nomberg, ‘Opatoshus “In poylishe velder”’, p. 115.
Chapter 7
v
‘Such a Rag-Bag’:
The Historical Novel as Spectacle,
neo-Hasidic Hagiography,
and Pseudo-territory
Jan Schwarz
Kotsk hot gevust: der emes ligt take in drerd, ober der emes lebt un shtikt zikh
in keyver. Der emes vil oyfshteyn tkhies-hamesim, ober der mentsh lozt nisht.
Zayn palats shteyt vi an oyhel afn keyver un lozt dem emes dem kop nisht
oyf heybn.
[Kotsk knew: the truth is hidden deep in the ground, but the truth lives and
suffocates in the grave. The truth would rise up like the resurrection of the
dead, but the human being won’t allow it. His palace stands like a monument
on the grave and does not allow the truth to raise its head.1]
In general, cultural continuity becomes an issue in situations of drastic change.
However, the concept assumes particular urgency and drama in situations in
which revolutionary developments are seen as threatening or promising the
breaking of one’s ties with the ‘origins’ whatever those may be; and such, for
sure, was the cultural upheaval that gave rise to the new Jewish literatures
and informed them throughout their existence. They purported to be new
and exultingly advertised their newness; but they also purported to be Jewish,
which meant that ties with the past, or at least with parts of it, could not be
relinquished.2
In Poylishe Velder (In Polish woods, 1921) was Joseph (Yoysef ) Opatoshu’s break
through as a best-selling novelist. The book was published in twenty-one editions
in Warsaw, Vilna, and New York in a total of almost 30,000 copies during the
interwar period.3 It was translated into Hebrew in 1921 and Polish in 1923, and
then into Russian, Ukrainian, English, German, Spanish, and Romanian. On
Opatoshu’s first visit back to Poland in 1922, fifteen years after his immigration to
the United States, the 35-year-old writer was received as a literary celebrity:
Opatoshu’s visit back to the old home, Poland, was transformed into the sort of
journey of triumph that rarely happened to a young Yiddish writer. The novel
In Polish Woods was being published in Warsaw in one edition after the other, in
thousands of copies. The work appeared in serialized form in the newspaper Der
moment and was read with tremendous interest and anticipation by the broadest
98 Jan Schwarz
strata of the Jewish people. The book was also published in translation in the
Warsaw Jewish Polish newspaper Nasz Przegląd...4
In addition to positive reviews by critics such as Shmuel Niger, Borekh Rivkin,
Hersh Dovid Nomberg, and Yankev Shatski, the Yiddish critic Bal-Makhshoves in
a letter from Kovne thanked Opatoshu for sending In poylishe velder and mentioned
that: ‘Dovid Bergelson is the first to have read it and talks every evening about
what an impression it has made on him. Bergelson is going to review it for [Bal
Makshoves’ journal] Yidishe shtime [Yiddish voice]’.5 Most remarkable, for a Yiddish
novel, was the fact that it was made into a silent movie by the Yiddish actor Yonas
Turkov in 1929.6
The main challenge of writing a Yiddish historical novel consisted of balancing a
static, mythic, and religiously based Jewish universe with the developmental scheme
of its protagonist and the open structure of the genre. Opatoshu’s solutions to these
issues in In Poylishe velder demonstrated his considerable innovation and refreshing
lack of a uniform artistic strategy. Living in New York, an ocean away from the
European slaughterhouse of the First World War, during which time he was writing
the novel (1915–19), he crafted a historical epic that responded to the East European
Jewish crisis of war and dislocation. Whereas Bergelson stopped writing altogether
during the First World War, the war years were among Opatoshu’s most creative.
In the words of the Yiddish critic Nakhmen Mayzel:
It is important to emphasize that the distance which separated the artists from
the places where the World War, the [Russian] civil war, the slaughter of Jews
took place — that distance enabled the artists in America to write great works
in response to the enormous events in Jewish Europe. What was impossible for
the writers who lived in the midst of war was possible for American Yiddish
writers.7
Like Yiddish fiction writers such as Sholem Aleichem, Sholem Asch, Israel Joshua
Singer, and, after 1945, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Opatoshu wrote about Jewish
American immigrant life in realist, satirical fiction emphasizing its decadent,
materialistic, and assimilationist tendencies, while imagining the East European
Jewish world in sweeping neo-Romantic family chronicles and historical novels.
This diversification of his subject matter was finely tuned to the reading habits of
the Yiddish readership in New York and Warsaw. Just as Sholem Aleichem had
first mapped the global reach and subject matter of Yiddish fiction in the early
twentieth century, so Opatoshu set out to conquer the centres of Yiddishland in
Eastern Europe, America, and the Soviet Union. To promote his work, he made a
number of trips to Warsaw and Moscow in the 1920s and 1930s.8
The origin and development of the Yiddish historical novel was closely tied to its
use as a commodity in the literary market dominated by the Yiddish press, which
would serialize, promote, and critique Yiddish literature for a mass readership
in Eastern Europe and abroad. As Dan Miron points out, the rise of the Yiddish
novel as the dominant form of Yiddish fiction began after the failed 1905 Russian
Revolution, and ‘the daily press exerted a tremendous inf luence on the development
of Yiddish fiction in the twentieth century’.9 This resulted in fiction that catered to
readers’ demand for entertainment in the form of shund novels (popular fiction) and
‘Such a Rag-Bag’ 99
‘literary novels’. Moreover, the historical novel’s educational purpose, as originated

by Sir Walter Scott, was a perfect vehicle for the Yiddish press’s objective to serve
as a daily guide for a mass Jewish readership.
In his study The Historical Novel, the Marxist literary theoretician Georg Lukács
stressed the genre’s humanist impulse to educate, and examined its representation
of historical trends and historical-social types. His Theory of the Novel published
in 1920, in contrast, highlighted the radical transformation of the conception of
the novel brought about by the First World War. The fragmentation of form and
content which manifested itself in the modernist surge in European literature at that
time was particularly evident in the creation of new forms of fiction: stream of con
sciousness, symbolism, expressionism. The modernist upheaval in European music,
ballet, theatre, and painting, moreover, accelerated the breakdown of what had been
relatively stable aesthetic models of the novel in its various realist and naturalist
forms. The novel began to be used for unprecedented artistic experimentation:
the problems of the novel form are here the mirror-image of a world gone out
of joint. This is why the ‘prose’ of life is here only a symptom, among many
others, of the fact that reality no longer constitutes a favorable soil for art; that
is why the central problem for the novel is the fact that art has to write off the
closed and total forms which stem from a rounded totality of being — that art
has nothing more to do with any world of forms that is immanently complete
in itself.10
At this time, Yiddish writers started to experiment with various forms of modernism:
the Inzikhist poets whose manifesto was published in 1921, H. Leivick’s dramatic
poem Der goylem (The Golem, 1921), Peretz Markish’s pogrom poem Di Kupe (The
Heap, 1921), and In poylishe velder. Opatoshu created a historical novel whose mix of
multiple genres planted seeds for artistic innovation by later Yiddish novelists. The
two Singer brothers’ historical novels about Hasidic communities, Yoshe Kalb (1932)
and Sotn in Goray (Satan in Goray, 1933), owe a great deal to Opatoshu’s exposition
of the power hunger and sexual depravity of the Kotsker hoyf (Kotsker Court). The
artistic licence to juxtapose various styles, genres, and milieus, in particular, became
a great stimulus for the development of modernist Yiddish fiction.11 However, as
Dan Miron points out, ‘Yiddish prose fiction throughout the twentieth century
was dominated by pre-modernistic trends, mostly realism’ and ‘dominated by
conservative, mimetic, essentially nineteenth century novelists’ such as Sholem
Asch, Israel Joshua Singer, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Zalman Shneour, Dovid Bergelson
(in the later part of his career), and Josef Opatoshu.12 Although conceived as a realist
historical novel, In Poylishe velder must also be viewed as a harbinger of modernist
Yiddish fiction through its play with intertextual references, mix of multiple
discourses (including references in Polish, German, and Hebrew), and its collage
of high and low cultural forms. Opatoshu’s rewriting of the genre conventions of
the historical novel was informed by his pursuit of the deeper truth and tenor of
his historical narrative and characters. In the cycle of poems, Cantos, the American
modernist poet Ezra Pound declared: ‘the modern world | Needs such a rag-bag to
stuff all its thoughts in’.13 It was as ‘such a rag-bag’ of various genres, narratives, and
styles that In Poylishe velder became inf luential in the development of Yiddish fiction.
100 Jan Schwarz
In a 1931 lecture at the Warsaw PEN club, Opatoshu argued that the Jews, like
the Norwegians and Danes, are called upon to make Europe view them as a living
historical force and not a relic of the ancient world. The historical novel enabled
Opatoshu to make Polish Jews come alive as a distinct national entity with its own
historical destiny. Ref lecting on the lack of significant historical novels in Yiddish
literature, Opatoshu stressed the Yiddish readership’s ignorance of the ‘Jewish
library’. The novel in the form of a published book was a relatively new commodity
in the Yiddish cultural marketplace, which had been dominated by the pamphlet
and serialized novels in the press: ‘the am-haseyfer (People of the Book) has turned
away from the book, and has not yet familiarized itself with the library’.14 Opatoshu
set out to mine the library of Jewish and Polish literature in order to create a
modern novelistic discourse that could serve as a usable past for a Jewish readership
estranged from its own textual history.
The first section of the novel, In vald (In the Woods), depicts Mordechai’s
origins in a family of vald yidn (forest Jews). Significantly, Opatoshu chooses a
protagonist brought up in a hardworking Jewish family that was isolated among
the Polish fishermen with their Catholic beliefs and pagan rituals near the river
Vistula in central Poland. This is a radical departure from the classic image of the
shtetl in Yiddish literature, which focused on the traditional religious fabric of a
homogeneous Jewish polis with a static, self-reliant way of life. The environment
which shapes Mordechai, in contrast, is characterized by physical labour, faith in
the Hassidic rebbe (the Kotsker), and social proximity with the Polish fishermen
and peasants.
Mordechai’s attempt to rebel against his father, Abraham, der pan shrayber (the
administrator of the Pan, i.e. the Polish noble property of woods), in order to
marry his childhood sweetheart Rachel, the daughter of his father’s pakhter (tenant),
is foiled by his parents.15 Mordechai’s melamed (Hebrew for ‘schoolteacher’), his
maternal grandfather, is a misnaged, an opponent of the Hasidim, whose stern
legalism is contrasted with Abraham’s passionate personality, healthy sexuality, and
lack of reverence for the Kotsker Rebbe. The first section ends with an affirmation
of the golden chain of generational continuity to which Mordechai is linked with
unbreakable bonds:
Un fun ale vinklen, khfeytsim, gezimsn, fun der shvartser, feter erd hobn zikh
getsoygn fedem, zikh gevebt arum Mordekhayn vi a pantser, az keyn vint zol
im nisht tsebrekhn, un tomed, vu er iz nor nisht geven, hobn di fedem im
getsoygn tsurik aheym.16
[And from all corners, objects, and cornices of the black, fat earth, strings were
woven around Mordechai like a suit of armour so no wind could break it, and
always, wherever he was, the strings drew him back home.]
The polish woods are a place of mythology and heroism where ‘Napoleon, the
Gentile shoemaker had walked’ (Napoleon, der shuster-sheygets iz gegangen, p. 85).
The story of the wounded Napoleon seeking refuge at the home of Mordechai’s
great-grandparents links the protagonist to a great historical figure who fought
for freedom and now exists only as a legend. Characteristically, the mythological
imagery that shapes Mordechai’s identity is derived from a non-Jewish, European
context. The large families of vald yidn have disappeared as a result of Jewish
migration to bigger towns and the decline of the timber business. The remaining
Jews left in the Polish woods are Mordechai, the only child of the ageing father
Abraham and his second wife Dvoyre, who is twenty-five years his junior. This
idyllic romance of the Rousseauesque child of nature in the nucleus of a family
remains unchallenged by Mordechai’s unsuccessful attempt to rebel by realizing his
erotic infatuation with the tenant’s daughter. In order to remove Mordechai from
the object of his desire, his parents ship him off on a two-day voyage to the Kotsker
Rebbe, accompanied by his chaperone, Itshe the kabbalist, the vald tsadik (the Holy
man of the Woods).
The second part, Kotsk, is a rewriting of Yitzkhok Leybush Peretz’s well-known
Hasidic story Tvishn tsvey berg (Between Two Mountains, 1900–01).17 Peretz’s
tale romanticizes the Hasidic world while imbuing it with humanist and socialist
aspirations. The novel’s main religious figure is Menachem Mendel Morgensztern
of Kotsk, better known as the Kotsker Rebbe (1787–1859), a controversial Hasidic
leader who secluded himself during the final twenty years of his life. The
uncompromising harshness of the Kotsker’s search for emes (truth) is contrasted
with the intrigues and moral depravity at the rebbe´s hoyf (the Rabbi’s court) where
his family and their supporters scheme to exploit the rebbe’s power and select his
successor. Like Peretz’s Bialer rebbe in Between Two Mountains, Itshe the Kabbalist
represents the polar opposite of the Kotsker: warm, empathetic, and humane. At
the same time, Itshe is also vying to become the successor to the Kotsker’s Hasidic
dynasty. The Kotsker’s pathetic and desperate attempt to escape his role as the
leading rebbe of his generation subverts the role of the rabbi figure, the brisker rov
in Between Two Mountains. The Kotsker exclaims: ‘Oksen, vos vilt ir fun mir? Vert
farshreyfet! Vos hot ir zikh ongezets af mir? Ikh bin keyn rebbe nisht! Nemt zikh
Itshen un geyt tsu aldi shvartse yor, ir hert?’ [Oxen, what do you want from me?
Burn up! Why have you descended on me? I am not a rebbe! Take Itsche and go
to hell, do you hear?].18
One of Berek Yoselovitsh’s soldiers from the Polish uprising against Russia of
1794, who had lost a leg in the fighting, a man of eighty, joins the travelling band
of Itshe the Kabbalist, Mordechai, and Kotsker Hasidim on the final stretch of their
pilgrimage from Warsaw to Kotsk.19 The internal conf licts in the Jewish world are
ignited prior to the group’s arrival in Kotsk, when the Hasidim desecrate the grave
of Yoselovitsh. Mordechai shows his solidarity with the old soldier by entering
Kotsk arm in arm with him. The religious ritual of oyle regl zayn, a pilgrimage
on foot to the Kotsker Rebbe, has thus been redefined to include a secular Jewish
freedom fighter. In this incident, the novel demonstrates that sacrificing oneself for
the ideals of truth and liberation is only for the selected few whose fate — regardless
of creed, nationality, and ideology — is sealed by the tragic failure of their projects.
As a result, the neo-Romantic project of Peretz’s Between Two Mountains has been
given a belated lease of life.
The moral corruption at the Kotsker court is highlighted by the anti-normative
behaviour of the rebbe’s son Dovid, who manipulates the power politics of his family.
Dovid presides over a sexual orgy orchestrated by supporters of the Sabbatai Zvi sect
102 Jan Schwarz
in town. The maskilim in Kotsk are depicted as assimilated Polish Jews fighting for
the liberation of Poles and Jews from Russian tyranny as part of their universalist
liberation theology, which has great appeal to Mordechai and other (fallen) Kotsker
Hasidim. The scenes with the Kotsker, however, stand out dramatically in the
portrait of the rebbe’s heroic quest for truth (emes). According to Opatoshu, the
Kotsker adheres to the school of Shamai’s principle: ‘der mentsh hot beteve keyn libe
tsum tsveytn’ (by nature, a human being does not love his neighbour).20 As a result
of his exposure to the Kotsker Rebbe’s court, Mordechai’s religious and familial
foundation begins to disintegrate, leading him towards nihilism and revolutionary
fervour in the third part:
Der binyen, vos er hot ibergenumen fun dor-doyres, hot zikh ongehoybn
vaklen, funanderfaln un dos feyer in im hot arumgekhapt di khurves, zenen
zey zikh tsekrokhn vi ibergezenkt shtroy un er hot derfilt, vi er treyslt fun zikh
alts arop, bafrayt zikh, vert an anderer.21
[The building, which he took over from generations of Jews, began to shake,
fall apart, and the fire in him was caught by ruins, so that they broke down
into sunken straw, and he felt as if he shook off everything, liberated himself,
became another person.]
Farn shturm (Before the Storm), the third and final part of the novel, takes place in a
broader historical context: the unrest leading up to the 1863 Polish uprising against
the Russian imperial power. This section highlights the troubled relationship
between Poles and Jews interwoven among family histories of Polonized Jews. The
Polish character Yelinski, for example, had a Jewish grandfather named Yerukham.
Yelinski proudly displayed this Jewish name among his co-conspirators in order to
spite his father, who had converted to Catholicism. The Jewish name also boosted
his revolutionary credentials. A hundred years previously, in 1750, a Polish Bishop
had punished Yelinski’s grandfather, the Jewish community leader Yerukham, for
his rebellious behaviour by whipping him while his wife was forced to count the
whippings. Behind the uprising that united Jews and Poles was a troubled history
of religious anti-Semitism that placed a heavy strain on Polish–Jewish relations
in the revolutionary movement. In the third part of the novel, various estranged
Jews — assimilated, converts to Catholicism and revolutionaries — who struggle
with the ghost of Polish anti-Semitism, enter the historical stage as fighters against
Russian tyranny.
The rebellion of the Polish peasants led by Catholic priests is brutally suppressed
by the Cossacks. As the fighting rages around him, Mordechai lies next to a cross
that had been pulled down from a church. The cross thus literally and symbolically
separates Mordechai from the Polish uprising:
Er hot a hoyb geton di hent, derzen vi der tseylem tsevaksn zikh, blaybt shteyn
tvishn im un der mase, vi an ayzerne mekhitse. Royte tropns feyer zenen farbay
mit a zumeray. Mordechai hot derfilt a shleyder oyf tsurik — der tseylem an
ibergebrokhener iz gelegn bay zayne fis. Er hot derzen Kahanen, vi er shteyt
ibern tsebrokhenem tseylem mit tseshpreyte hent un shrayt: Roym iz gefaln!
Roym iz gefaln.22
[He raised his hands, seeing how the cross grew. It stood between him and
the masses of people, like an iron separation. Red f lames of fire blazed passed
him. Mordechai felt a push backwards — the broken cross lay at his feet. He
saw Kahan [an assimilated Polish Jew and leader of the uprising] standing over
the broken cross, his hands spread out, and crying: Rome has fallen! Rome has
fallen.]
The next chapter gives a documentary description of the rebellion’s victims, the
ravages of war crystallized in the image of the naked, mutilated body of a Catholic
priest buried in the desolate winter landscape. Peretz’s 1891 documentary travelogue
Bilder fun a provints rayze (Pictures from a Journey in the Provinces) provides the
proof-texts for the way in which Opatoshu portrays Mordechai’s lone foray into the
Polish provinces, where he meets Poles and Jews. Mordechai encounters a young
man at a Jewish inn who shows him his Hebrew writings about mathematics,
inspired by Salomon Maimon’s main Hebrew work Gives hamoyre (a commentary
on the first part of Maimonides’ Moreh Nevukhim, Berlin 1791). Like Maimon, who
left the shtetl in order to become a disciple of Moses Mendelssohn and Kant in
Berlin, the young man is dreaming of moving to the West to study there:
Er hot zikh dermont on ‘gives hamoyre’, nisht gezen in dem keyn tsufal, vos
mit drayfertl yorhundert tsurik, iz Shloyme Maimon, punkt azoy gezesn in a
shenk, vi der yungerman, geshribn bahalternerheyt, a khiburl un gekholmt
tsu forn nokh oysland. Drayfertls yorhundert — un keyn zakh hot zikh nisht
geendert, alts vi geven, un ver veyst, meglekh, az in drayfertl yorhundert
shpeter, vet a hungeriker durkhgeyer araynfaln in der halb-ayngefalner shenk
un vider bagegegn aza yungerman — meglekh — .23
[He recalled Maimon’s work and did not view it as coincidental that three
quarters of a century ago Solomon Maimon sat just like the young man in the
inn, writing a monograph in secret and dreaming of travelling abroad. Three
quarters of a century and nothing had changed, everything was like in the past
and who knows, possibly, three quarters of a century later, a hungry traveller
will barge into the half-dilapidated inn, and will again encounter such a young
man — possibly —.]
In these meta-narrative ref lections recounted from Mordechai’s point of view,
Opatoshu elaborates on his view of the historical novel as a repository of recurrent
images, proof-texts, and references from the treasure trove of Jewish collective
memory. Moreover, the gap of seventy years between the novel’s setting and the
time of narration enables Opatoshu to comment on historical events as filtered
through the present, the early 1920s.
Mordechai represents two different mythic characters: the suffering Christ figure
exposed to the anti-Semitic hostility of the Polish peasantry in the countryside, and
Robin Hood, the freedom fighter for human dignity against Russian tyranny. At
the end of the novel, Mordechai casts his lot with Yerukham’s heroic courage by
stepping into the fray when a Polish man is being whipped. As a result, Mordechai
is exposed as a Jew and is whipped instead. Mordechai becomes a legendary figure,
a rallying point for the rebellion against the Cossacks and their allies among the
Polish nobility. Mordechai is lionized by the Polish peasants as the personification
of the revolutionary Christ figure. The final chapter depicts the death and burial of
104 Jan Schwarz
the Kotsker while leaving Mordechai’s tale open ended, leading up to the sequel,
the historical novel 1863 published in 1926.
* * * * *
As Avraham Novershtern points out, the mythology of apocalypse and redemption
(geule) provided an important aesthetic discourse for three generations of Yiddish
writers, which culminated in the 1920s and early 1930s. This modernist and
mythological surge in Yiddish literature was represented by H. Leivick’s dramatic
poem Der goylem, Peretz Markish’s Di kupe (The Heap, 1921), and Aaron Zeitlin’s
poem Metraton (1922), subtitled ‘apocalyptic poem’. The literary precursors for this
resurgence of apocalyptic themes were Yitskhok Leybush Peretz’s two modernist
plays Di goldene keyt (The Golden Chain, 1907) and Bay nakht afn altn mark (At
Night in the Old Market Place, 1908), and particularly Moyshe Leyb Halpern’s
apocalyptic poem A nakht (A Night), published in 1919 in his New York collection.
The more radical works, such as Di kupe and A nakht, emphasized the impossibility
of redemption while using modernist techniques that vivified the works’ pervading
tonality of death, antinomianism, and the grotesque in the depiction of pogroms
and their aftermath in the Ukraine between 1919 and 1920. The less radical versions
are H. Leivick’s The Golem and Isaac Bashevis Singer’s novel Der sotn in Goray.
Both of these works end with the re-establishment of traditional Jewish norms and
cyclical time pattern. Similar to the historical The Golem and Metraton, In Poylishe
velder neutralizes its apocalyptic features:
A drama that takes place in the distant past, and portrays failed Messianic
figures and follows historical events that have long since taken place, is the
exact opposite of an apocalyptic vision. From such a remote chronological
perspective the apocalyptic tension is clearly weakened.24
Mordechai’s two dream sequences, which are the only narratives that afford the
reader access to the protagonist’s inner life, are portrayed in a surrealistic mode,
in sharp contrast to the realist discourse of the rest of the novel. In the first dream
sequence (Part One, chapter 9), references to the Messiah ben Joseph (p. 106) and
the end-of-times battle between Gog and Magog are inscribed in the context of
the emperor Napoleon’s recuperation at Mordechai’s great-grandparents’ house in
the Polish woods. The midrash that the coming of the Messiah is inaugurated by
a beggar at the gates of Rome who is able to heal the sick is related to the novel’s
depiction of Mordechai as a rebellious, suffering Jesus figure, and Poland as a latter-
day incarnation of Rome, the Kingdom of the Cross (cf. In Malkhes fun tseylem, the
title of Uri Zvi Greenberg’s 1923 poem).25 Opatoshu’s use of such Christological
images and myths reinforces the novel’s neutralization of its messianic themes.26
In the second dream sequence (Part Two, chapter 10), the failed messiah Shlomo
Molkho (1500–32) appears; his original Christian name, Diogo Pires, is presented
in Latin letters.27 Pires circumcised himself and became a messianic figure, dying
a martyr’s death on the stake for refusing to convert back to Catholicism. Like
Mordechai’s Jesus image and his revolutionaries’ struggle with their mixed Polish–
Jewish identities, the contested boundaries between Judaism and Christianity cast a
troubling shadow on the rebellion against Russian tyranny. In contrast to the failed
redeemers (Molcho and the Sabbatai Zvi supporters in Kotsk), the novel references
two works that present two distinctly different national visions for, respectively,
the Polish and Jewish people situated in the world of political and historical reality.
These are ‘Great Improvisation’ (the title of Part Two, chapter 5 in Opatoshu’s
novel), the grand Romantic tribute to Polish national revival in Adam Mickiewicz’s
Dziady (The Forefathers, 1832), and Moses Hess’s proto-Zionist tract Rome and
Jerusalem (1862), the title of Part Three, chapter 1 of In Poylishe velder.28 By making
a direct reference to a major work of Polish Romantic poetry in the prophetic
mode and a proto-Zionist book that encouraged Jewish immigration to Palestine
as a solution to the ‘Jewish question’, Opatoshu commented on the main Jewish
political issues of the day (Zionism, Soviet communism, Polish anti-Semitism) and
inscribed the novel as part of the 1920s surge of Yiddish works featuring the issues
of political messianism.
* * * * *
The Kotsker Rebbe is the novel’s main historical figure, an iconoclastic, visionary
Hasidic leader. He provides the foundation and direction for Mordechai’s quest
into Polish–Jewish collective history and spirituality. Opatoshu’s Kotsker Rebbe is
an anti-prophet who rejects the cultish hero worship that characterizes the Hasidic
hagiographic tradition (e.g. Shivhei ha-Besht [In Praise of the Besht], published in
1814) and its neo-Romantic re-creation (Ytzkhok Leybush Peretz and Martin
Buber’s Hasidic tales and aphorisms). Opatoshu shows poignantly that the writer
is not the prophet and the prophet is not the writer. This is first articulated after
Mordechai’s second dream sequence:
Im iz klor gevorn, far vos mentshn, vos hobn oyfgetreyslt veltn, gegebn dem
lebn a nayem tokh, hobn nisht ibergelozt nokh zikh keyn ksovim. Tomed hot
zikh bavizn a talmid, tsi talmidim, geshribn in nomen fun rebn, un gut azoy!
Er hot genumen dem seyfer hamefoer, gedrukt in Saloniki. Vi orem, vi
orem! A shotn fun a shotn! Vos far a shaykhes hot dos khiburl mit der likhtiker
geshtalt fun a Diogo Pires? Diogo Pires — Shloyme Molkho — Eliyahu
hanovi, vos kumt onzogn der velt, az Moyshe zitst bay di toyern fun Roym,
lozt hern gots vort, az der Tiber vet farf leytsn di zindike shtot un Klemens der
zibeter farlozt fun shrek dem palats, antloyft — 29
[It was clear to him why people who shook worlds, who gave life a new
essence, never left any writings. A student or students always appeared and
wrote in the name of the rebbe and that was good.
He took the Sefer Hamefoar, printed in Saloniki. How poor, how poor! A
shadow of a shadow! Which connection did this little essay have with the
luminous figure of a Diogo Pires? Diogo Pires — Shlomo Molcho — the
Prophet Eliyoho who came to tell the world that Moses sits at the gates of
Rome, let God’s words be heard that the Tiber would f lood the sinful city and
Klemens the Seventh leave his palace in fear, f leeing — .]
In the two chapters ‘Reb Mendele Kotsker’ (Reb Mendele of Kotsk, Part Two,
chapter 2) and ‘Ven men volt khotsh zikher geven’ (If One Was at Least Sure, Part
Two, chapter 7), Opatoshu provides a psychologically compelling portrait of the
106 Jan Schwarz
Kotsker challenging the hagiographic, neo-Romantic style of Peretz and Buber. In

the latter chapter, the Kotsker is shown as a great teacher of scepticism and nihilism
who succeeds in comforting three Jews who approached him for advice. In the final
death scene, the Kotsker tells Reb Itshe to burn all his writings while reiterating
that ‘der mentsh iz a shtinker’ (the human being stinks, p. 365). What’s left after the
burning of his writings, the only visible sign of the Kotsker messianic aspirations, is,
in his own words ‘bloyz a zekl mit kranke beyner’ (only a pack of sick bones, p. 365).
The Kotsker wants to preserve one single page entitled Seyfer Haodem (Adam’s Holy
Book) which contains the essence of the entire human being (dem gantsn mentsh,
p. 366). The Kotsker tries to recreate the writing from this burnt page but nothing
but gibberish becomes visible. The Kotsker’s final credo before his saintly death
(Opatoshu uses the phrase nistolek gevorn, the death of a saintly person, p. 368) is the
novel’s most explicit negation of the messianic aspiration inherent in the Hasidic
hagiographical tradition:
Ven ikh volt ongehoybn fun dos nay — iz Reb Mendele gevorn oyfgeroymter
— veystu vos kh’volt geton? Ikh’volt zikh oysgeklibn etlekhe hundert yunge
layt, zey ongeton shtreymelekh fun kroyt, aroyfgeshikt oyf dekher, zey zoln
shrayen tog un nakht: di velt shtinkt, di velt shtinkt.30
[If I were start all over again — Reb Mendele became more agitated — do you
know what I would have done? I would have selected a few hundred young
men, clad them in Hasidic hats made of cabbage, and sent them up on the
rooftops from which they would shout day and night: the world stinks, the
world stinks.]
The novel utilizes the key tropes of the classical Yiddish shtetl narrative employed
by di klasikers and subverted by second- and third-generation Yiddish prose writers:
the fire, the departure, and the appearance of a stranger.31 The fire takes place after
the orgy conducted by the neo-Sabbatean group when the Hasidic court goes up
in f lames. At that moment ‘s’iz im klor gevorn, az khsides goysest’ (it became clear to
him [Mordechai] that the Hasidic movement is dying).32 By choosing to depict the
Hasidic movement’s decline through moral corruption, sexual licentiousness, and
lack of leadership, Opatoshu portrays the end of the shtetl as the precondition for
building a new world. The epic departure of the novel’s protagonist Mordechai
from his rootedness in the Polish woods in Part One becomes a recurring pattern
of departure and beginning.
The depiction of Mordechai’s place of origin in the first part is contrasted with
the dynamic veg roman (travelogue) and multifaceted shtetl narrative of Kotsker
Hasidim and maskilim (exponents of the Haskalah, the Jewish enlightenment) in
the second part. In the third part, Mordechai has become a stranger in the Polish
provinces. After his exposure to the violent Polish rebellion that brings him face
to face with the cross as a symbol of freedom and liberation, Mordechai returns
home to Kotsk where he witnesses the death of the Kotsker. In the final pages of
the novel, Mordechai passes the door of Felicia, a Polonized Jewish woman, but
remains unable to realize the mutual erotic attraction between them. This inability
to commit to a woman echoes a similar unfulfilled sexual infatuation in Part One
and underlines Mordechai’s status as a wandering stranger. However, unlike the
travelling narrator in Peretz’s Impressions of a Journey in the Provinces, who is collecting

data about Jewish shtetl life in order to improve its condition, Mordechai passes
through both Kotsk and the Polish provinces as a spectator. As such the protagonist
becomes a stand-in for the reader, who is presented with various historical tableaux
where actors — historical and fictional — perform a dramatic spectacle. The novel’s
character of a theatrical drama reinforces its display of actions and effects separated
from the protagonist’s existential quest and inner life.
In Mikhail Krutikov’s reading, Sorke, the protagonist of Opatoshu’s historical
novel Aleyn (Alone) written prior to the First World War (1912–13) and published
in 1919, highlight’s the work’s ‘new vision of history and its inf luence on the
personality’.33 Similarly, Mordechai is depicted as an individualist, a survivor
with a spectator’s distance from the historical events that he directly or indirectly
witnesses. Mordechai’s lack of interiority results in a one-dimensional portrait in
stark contrast to the rich inner lives of the protagonists in classical Yiddish fiction,
such as Tevye der milkhiger (Tevye the Dairyman, 1894–1915) and Peretz’s narrator
of Impressions of Journey in the Provinces. The anonymous mystique of Mordechai
signifies his untapped potential as a new world hero beyond the parameters of the
old world’s historically rooted Jewish collective. After the decline and ultimate
destruction of Kotsk, Mordechai is poised to throw off the bondage of history and
religion to become a new world hero, an as yet unwritten page of history.
The Jewish-American character of the novel and its protagonist is perceptively
articulated by the Yiddish critic Borekh Rivkin:
And while Mordechai is [a vehicle] for the author, he is not only the
protagonist, but the main spectator who moves in a zig zag time line, similar to
Opatoshu’s style, through corridors of milieus, events, classes, countries: only
connected through the eyes of the main spectator...And after reading the book,
the reader is like someone who has travelled through a territory with its valleys
and hills, and has visited all its corners and has felt so much at home that he
feels like a native citizen of the territory...
In Poylishe velder firmly established the first territory in Yiddish literature.
In various countries Yiddish literature territories are established, and Yiddish
literature is on its way to becoming a global Jewish territory.
America is the foundation from which it is possible to reach out to a global
territory. The first impetus came from here. The pseudo-territorial sense
of American Jews expanded its scope to the expectation of a global Jewish
territory — simply through the geographical fact that America is on the other
side of the ocean, and on the European side of the ocean a huge number of
Jewish countries remained, and, originating in these countries, offshoots
of Jewish communities were established in America. And this expectation
required a work which would fill it with content. Opatoshu’s In Poylishe velder
appeared as an answer to this expectation and demand.34
Rivkin’s main critical work, Grunt-tendentsn fun der yidisher literatur in amerike (Major
Trends in Yiddish Literature in America, 1945), was first published in two parts in
Zamlbikher, an anthology of critical essays edited by Y. Opatoshu and H. Leivick
in 1936 and 1938. The above quote from the second part from 1938 articulates a
conception of Yiddish literature to which Opatoshu adhered. Rivkin coined the
term kemoy-teritorye (pseudo-territory) to characterize one of the central ‘drives’ of
108 Jan Schwarz
Yiddish literature to create an imaginary territory for the deterritorialized Jewish

immigrants to America and their brothers and sisters in Eastern Europe who,
despite their much bigger numbers, remained a minority group with no territorial
rights as Jews in various European nation-states. The role of Yiddish literature was
a substitute for religion and nationality in the creation of a virtual culture that
would replace a national territorialized identity. Like the Zionists in Palestine and
the Soviet Jewish Communists under the banners of, respectively, Hebrew culture
in their biblical homeland and Soviet-supported and -controlled Yiddish culture,
American Yiddishists believed in the liberating and uniting force of the Yiddish
language and literature. Yiddish as a global language in the inter-war period
connecting approximately 12 million Yiddish speakers in Europe, the Americas,
and the Soviet Union was the glue that would unite and continue the historical
existence of the Yiddish-speaking communities.
For American Yiddish readers, In Poylishe velder reminded them of the world they
had left behind and only maintained contact with via their familial connections in
Eastern Europe. For Polish and Soviet Yiddish readers In Poylishe velder highlighted
their distance from a historical reality that had been made obsolete by the radical
transformation of the First World War and the 1917 Soviet Revolution. Only
Polish Jews and Polish readers could directly relate to the novel’s depiction of
their troubled intertwined history that still had relevance in the newly established
independent Poland of the 1920s. This probably explains the book’s much greater
success in Warsaw and Vilna than among readers in New York.
The blind spot in the critical conception of the American Yiddishists was the
increasing language assimilation among American and to a lesser degree even
Polish Jews. The fact that In Poylishe velder was translated into English only once
in 1938 and, unlike other significant Yiddish novels such as those by Israel Joshua
Singer and Sholem Asch, was never republished or retranslated into English,
indicates that the novel outside its Yiddish cultural context had become obscure for
a reason that Rivkin and Opatoshu could never have anticipated: the Holocaust.35
Following the destruction of Polish Jewry, In Poylishe velder’s imaginary pseudo-
territory and neo-Hasidic hagiography was received as a commemoration of a
world that is no more. The historical novels that replaced it after 1945 were Isaac
Bashevis Singer’s more conventional works, such as the Di familye Mushkat (Family
Moskat, 1950), The Manor, and The Estate (Der hoyf, 1967 and 1969). Singer’s works
catered in English to a new readership without the Jewish historical knowledge
and Yiddish-language proficiency that are required to appreciate In Poylishe velder’s
complex intertextuality. In Poylishe velder’s artistic innovation and proto-modernism
increasingly made it difficult to read for both the older immigrant generation and
the younger American-born readers.36
Opatoshu’s achievement with In Poylishe velder was its artistic expansiveness, which
enabled him to combine disparate thematic, stylistic, and narrative features in the
form of a historical novel that purported to be all things to all people. The novel
displayed historical erudition and mastery of multiple literary traditions (Polish,
Russian, Hebrew, Yiddish, and German); it contained melodrama and sexually
explicit scenes (at least for a Yiddish book in the early 1920s), while reinvigorating
the neo-Hasidic narrative in its intimate, hagiographic portrait of the Kotsker. The
novel presented a historical spectacle of Poles and Jews as two historical peoples
both divided and united in their struggle for national self-determination in the
form of theatrical tableaux from Kotsk and Warsaw. Moreover, the internal and
external ideological battle lines between Hasidim and maskilim, Polish and Jewish
revolutionaries, and the Catholic and Jewish clergy provided a historical microcosm
that could serve as a usable past for a diverse Jewish readership in New York,
Warsaw, and Moscow. Most impressive was Opatoshu’s facility in establishing
the historical novel as a serious genre of artistic experimentation and political
ideological representation in Yiddish. Opatoshu’s astute understanding of Yiddish
culture’s increasingly global scope enabled him to utilize serialization, translation,
film adaptation, and the book to reach a Yiddish mass audience eager to receive
the novel’s unique mix of entertainment, education, nostalgia, and spirituality
packaged as cultural commodities.
The work’s innovation in terms of genre, style, and fusion of disparate elements
was balanced by a past-oriented turn to Jewish sources and loci (the shtetl and the
Hasidic court). Similarly, the work’s messianic tonalities and violent imagery were
opposed by a neo-Romantic depiction of the Kotsker’s charismatic Hasidic ways
as the leading rebbe of his generation contributing to the already rich collection
of tales about Hasidic masters. Most importantly, In Poylishe velder contributed
to Yiddish cultural continuity at a time of historical crisis and abandonment of
Yiddish, by demonstrating the potential of historical fiction to address the issues
of the day. As such, the work has become paradigmatic in the development of the
Yiddish historical novel, a genre that increased in popularity during the inter-war
and post-Holocaust period.
Notes to Chapter 7
1. Abraham Joshua Heschel, ‘Der kotsker rebbe’, Di goldene keyt, 65 (1969), p. 138.
2. Dan Miron, From Continuity to Contiguity: Toward a New Jewish Literary Thinking (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2010), p. 190.
3. The first edition published in 1,500 copies in New York was followed by nine editions published
by Kultur-Lige in Warsaw, 1922–27, in a total of 15,000 copies; ten editions by the publisher
Boris Kletskin in Vilna, 1928–39 (as part of the Collected Works edition) in a total of 12,000
copies; and a twenty-first improved edition (oysgebeserte oyflage) by R. Y. Novack, New York
in 1947 in 2,500 copies. A final Yiddish edition of the work appeared in Shmuel Rozshanski’s
Musterverk series as volume xxiii in 1965 in 1,500 copies. All translations in the article are mine
from the latter edition.
4. Nakhmen Mayzel, Yoysef Opatoshu: Zayn lebn un shafn (Warsaw: Literarishe bleter, 1937), p.
103.
5. Letter from Bal Makhshoves in Kovne to Opatoshu in New York. <http://www.yivoencyclopedia.
org/search.aspx?query=bal+makhshoves+letter+opatosu> [accessed 6 January 2013].
6. No copy of this silent movie exists. The film critic Jim Hoberman sums up the film’s unique
qualities:
Seeking to infuse American-Jewish entertainment with Soviet-Jewish revolutionary
ardor, and boldly addressing the romance of 1863 on Jewish terms, Poylishe Velder
remains the one attempt to effect a synthesis of Polish-Jewish history. Its failure
epitomizes the decline of universalist aspirations within the Yiddish cinema. No further
110 Jan Schwarz
Yiddish best-sellers were adapted for the screen. No subsequent Yiddish film would
attempt to bridge so many worlds.
( Jim Hoberman, Bridge of Light: Yiddish Film between Two Worlds (New York: Schocken Books,
1991), p. 148.) The film was advertised in the first Yiddish film journal Film Velt (Film World),
published in Warsaw in ten issues between 1928 and 1929. According to Hoberman, the film
was a f lop and seems never to have been shown abroad (ibid.).
7. Mayzel, p. 96. Mayzel quotes from an article written by Bergelson in 1934 that gives an
indication of the difficult conditions for Yiddish writers in Eastern Europe during the First
World War: ‘There was no possibility to print books because the Czarist government had closed
all Yiddish publishers and the whole printing business’.
8. For a discussion of Opatoshu’s relationship to the Soviet Union, see Chapter 3 (Estraikh).
9. See Dan Miron’s entry on ‘Yiddish prose fiction’ in the YIVO Encyclopedia on-line, <http://
www.yivoencyclopedia.org:80/article.aspx/Prose/Yiddish_Prose> [accessed 6 January 2013].
10. Georg Lukács, The Theory of the Novel: A Historico-Philosophical Essay on the Forms of Great Epic
Literature (London: Merlin Press, 1971), p. 17.
11. The best examples of Yiddish modernist works of prose fiction are Dovid Ignatov’s In Keslgrub
(In the Crucible, 1918), Moyshe Kulbak’s Meshiekh ben Efraim (Messiah the Tribe of Ephrayim,
1924) and Montik (Monday, 1926), and in particular Yankev Glatshteyn’s stream-of-consciousness
Yash novels (1938, 1940).
12. Miron, From Continuity to Contiguity, p. 177.
13. Ezra Pound began work on the Cantos (published in book form in 1925) in 1911 and 1912. The
first poem in the collection (later discarded) includes the quote.
14. Musterverk, p. 398. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Der historisher roman’ (The Historical Novel), lecture
held in the Warsaw PEN club, 10 May 1931.
15. This social and economic role of the Jew as middleman in Polish society was characteristic of
the arenda (leasing) system:
Eager for economic gain and anxious to raise cash to buy foreign luxury goods, the
Polish nobles needed competent managers and entrepreneurs — as well as regular
markets and fairs on their estates. They found that the Jews were ideal partners,
especially because their pariah status in Christian Europe ensured that they could never
become dangerous political rivals. This symbiosis of nobles and Jews produced the
arenda (leasing) system, wherein landlords leased key economic functions to a Jewish
agent (arendar), who in turn engaged other Jews in a varied and complicated network
of sub-leases.
(Sam Kassow, ‘Introduction’, in The Shtetl: New Evaluations, ed. by Steven T. Katz (New York:
New York University Press, 2007), p. 3.)
16. Musterverk, p. 104
17. In his review of In Poylishe velder, the Yiddish critic Shmuel Niger suggested the connection
to Peretz’s Tvishn tsvey berg, and characterized Opatoshu as a ‘hayntiker “brisker rov”’, a latter-
day Brisker Rov. See Shmuel Niger, ‘Y. Opatoshus historisher roman’, in Yidishe shrayber fun
tsvantikstn yorhundert (New York: Altveltlekhn yidishn kulturkongres 1972), i, 221. A Rov is a
misnaged rabbi and opponent of the Hasidim. A rebbe is a Hasidic rabbi.
18. Musterverk, p. 205.
19. Jim Hoberman mentions that ‘Berel Joselewicz [...] had been appointed by Kosciuszko to lead
a Jewish Legion during the revolt of 1794. (An important symbol for Jewish assimilationists,
Joselewicz was played by the celebrated Gentile actor Jerzy Leszczynski)’ (Bridge of Light, p.
144).
21. Ibid., p. 216.
22. Ibid., p. 287.
23. Ibid., p. 309.
24. Avrom Novershtern, ‘Tvishn morgnzun un akhres-hoyomim: Tsu der apokaliptisher tematik in
der yidisher literatur’, Di goldene keyt, 135 (1993), p. 131.
25. Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 98a.

26. Novershtern, p. 129.
27. Musterverk, Ibid.,p. 292.
28. ‘It is generally agreed that Adam Mickiewicz’s three masterpieces are Dziady Part III, Kśięgi
narodu polskiego i pielgrzymstwa (The Books of the Polish Nation and Pilgrimage) — both
published in 1832 — and Pan Tadeusz (1834). Part III of Dziady includes his famous prophetic
“Great Improvisation” in which Gustaw, the central hero of the other parts of the play, who
until then is primarily a lover, is transformed into Konrad, the patriot.’ <http://info-poland.
buffalo.edu/classroom/mickiewicz/grol.html> [accessed 6 January 2013].
29. Musterverk, p. 91. In 1529, Molcho published a portion of his sermons under the title Derashot
(Interpretations) or Sefer ha-Mefo’ar (The Book of the Magnificent).
31. See Dan Miron’s ‘The Literary Image of the Shtetl’, in his study The Image of the Shtetl and Other
Studies of Modern Jewish Literary Imagination (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2000), pp. 1–48.
33. Mikhail Krutikov, Yiddish Fiction and the Crisis of Modernity, 1905–1914 (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2001), p. 171. Krutikov’s characterization of Sorke also applies to Mordechai:
Survival in this reality requires qualities that were not valued and cultivated by the
old order: inventiveness, vitality, spontaneity, and the willingness to take risks. At the
moment of crisis, youth becomes the main driving force of change. Looking back into
history and life in the Old Country, Opatoshu tries to uncover these qualities behind
the hard crust of traditional Yiddishkayt and to imagine the conf licts that took place in
that society. This project of reinterpreting East European Jewish life is, in fact, oriented
toward the need of the immigrant community to understand its place in the broad
context of Jewish history. (p. 181)
34. Borekh Rivkin, Grunt-tendentsn fun der yidisher literatur in Amerike (New York: IKUF Farlag,
1948), p. 168.
35. In Polish Woods (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1938). Translated from the
Yiddish by Isaac Goldberg.
36. See Miron’s poignant characterization of the American born Jewish readership:
A young generation of Jewish college graduates, avidly interested in ideas, literature,
art, ideologies, and international politics, would turn its back on the provincial world
of their ancestors and relinquish Yiddish, which they spoke at home; read T. S. Eliot
instead of Glants-Leyeles, Joyce and Faulkner instead of Opatoshu and B. Glazman, and
Edmund Wilson and Allen Tate instead of Niger and Rivkin. The modernists knew
that their rope was getting shorter by the day. Later in the 1930s, Glants-Leyeles would
sum up the situation succinctly in an ominous formula-like sentence: those who could
understand the Yiddish modernists had stopped reading Yiddish, while those who
still read Yiddish would not understand the modernists. (From Continuity to Contiguity,
p. 177).
Chapter 8
v
A tog in Regensburg and Elye Bokher

Opatoshu’s 1933 Vision of Early Yiddish
and Medieval Ashkenazi Culture, his
Scholarly-Yiddishist Models, and
Means of Representation
Roland Gruschka
In the 1920s, the study of Early Yiddish language and literature was f lourishing.
In the heyday of Yiddishism, the leading Yiddish scholars, who were also cultural
activists of that movement, not only systematically studied the early texts available
to them, but also attempted to acquaint the Yiddish-speaking public with this
seemingly almost forgotten cultural heritage.1 As part of this programme, they
began to promote their ideas on Early Yiddish literature in popular form alongside
their academic works. In doing so, they created a Yiddishist narrative of Jewish
literary history and elevated historical figures such as Elia Levita/Elijah Bahur/Elie
Bocher to the rank of cultural heroes, if not intellectual precursors. In other words,
what they accomplished was the perfect basis for artistic creativity and literary
re-enactment.
Joseph Opatoshu was one of the ambitious authors who took up this cultural
impulse.2 The results were the historical novel A tog in Regensburg (A Day in
Regensburg) and the cycle Elye Bokher (Elie Bocher), published together in one
volume in 1933.3 In these works, Opatoshu most closely followed the established
topoi and narratives of Yiddishist literary history and at the same time took a stance
on actual political and cultural affairs. In this chapter, I will demonstrate how
Opatoshu integrated these aspects into his own aesthetic programme, which might
be characterized as a ‘symbolic naturalism’, as well as into his artist vision of life.
Moreover, I will discuss how Opatoshu ultimately reshaped his literary message
under the impression of the raise of Nazism.
A Day in Regensburg
The novel A tog in Regensburg concerns an important wedding in the Regensburg
Jewish community, which takes place some day at the eve of the expulsion of
A tog in R egensburg and Elye Bokher 113
1519. One of the richest Jews in town, Shloyme Belasser, marries off his daughter
to the son of Elyohu Margolis, one of the wealthy leaders of the venerable Jewish
community of Worms. For this occasion, a troupe of famed jesters, merrymakers,
and minstrels from Prague is imported. Local minstrels vie with the Prague ‘stars’ in
entertaining the crowd. The novel presents a broad panorama of life on the Jewish
street, a (however brief ) interlude of joy and merrymaking, centred on an episode
in the life of its main characters — the Prague jester Fishl, the dancer Royzlin
‘Rose’, and the merchant Lemlin Sachse.
Within the genre of the historical novel, A tog in Regensburg was an innovation.
In particular, the work stands out as a stylistic and linguistic experiment. To avoid
linguistic anachronisms, Opatoshu carefully shaped the vocabulary and the idioms
used in the text. For the speeches of his figures, he created an archaized language,
endowed with what he regarded as characteristic features of Early Yiddish.4 As an
appendix, the book included a list of explanations of archaic Yiddish expressions
necessary for understanding.
The reception to the book was predominantly positive.5 Yiddishist intellectuals
obviously had already been waiting for such a novel about life in Old Ashkenaz.
Needless to say, Opatoshu also had to face harsh critical responses. Some of them
were primarily ideologically motivated; others, however, were reasoned, but
measured the novel by the yardstick of a different literary taste from his.6
Spielmann Theory and Literary Vitalism

The original set of characters, the Falstaffian plot elements, and not least the very
focus of the novel are obviously inspired by a core component of the Yiddishist
historiography of Old Ashkenaz: the so-called Spielmann theory, which rose in the
1920s.7 According to Spielmann theory, there was a professional class of leytsonim (or
leytsim) — Jewish wandering minstrels, musicians, merrymakers, and jesters, who
composed profane and entertaining Yiddish epic poems and songs and performed
them at certain festivities in Jewish households and communities in Old Ashkenaz.8
In other words, the theory not only postulated the existence of a Jewish equivalent
of the Christian Spielleute (minstrels, gleemen) known from German literary
history, but also extended its period of inf luence on Jewish literary culture well into
the sixteenth century. As impressive as this idea may seem, it is lacking substance
— which is to say the entire theory is false.
In the field of Yiddish Studies, Spielmann theory was definitely refuted only in
the late 1970s, after more than a decade of intensive study of the Old Yiddish texts
discovered in the so-called Cambridge Geniza-fragments.9 The state of research and
the materials available in the 1920s, however, left some room for speculation, and
the Yiddishist project called for a narrative spanning the entire history of Ashkenazi
culture. Therefore, it is not surprising that for Max Erik, Max Weinreich, and
other leading scholars in the field, the existence of such wandering Yiddish bards
in the Middle Ages and early modern period was beyond doubt.10 The historian of
Jewish literature Israel Zinberg, who was highly respected for the broad scope of his
studies, expressed some reservations, but in the end came forward with just a slightly
114 Roland Gruschka
modified version of this theory.11 As the German term Spielmann itself indicates, the
theory was an adaptation (or adoption) of a Romantic concept that had been very
popular in the fields of German and Medieval Studies. It is worth noting that in
the 1920s, when Yiddishist scholars started propagating their Yiddishized version
of Spielmann theory to the Jewish public, its original German Romantic model was
already loosing ground in Germanic scholarship.12
What shall concern us here, however, is the function of this literary myth in the
Yiddishist movement. As Khone Shmeruk has pointed out, Spielmann theory was
‘closely linked [...] to the attempt to determine the “secular” nature of Yiddish
literature’ in the medieval and early modern age.13 In other words, Yiddishist
scholars were anxious to find a precursor of modern secular Yiddish literary culture
in the distant past of the Old Ashkenaz, or at least a realm in social life that was
not of a predominantly religious or spiritual character. This tendency reveals itself,
for instance, in the way in which the Yiddishist scholars Nokhem Shtif, Max
Weinreich, and Max Erik deal with the antagonism of rabonim versus folk (‘rabbis’
versus ‘ordinary ( Jewish) people’) or the dialectics of yidishkayt and veltlekhkayt
(‘Jewishness’ and ‘secularity’) in their studies on literature.14
The very idea of a strong, somehow proto-secular element in Early Yiddish
culture was particularly fascinating to Joseph Opatoshu, because it provided a
theoretical foundation for his own views on Jewish life in past and present as he
intuitively apprehended it as a novelist. From his own research into Jewish history,
he became more and more convinced that the narratives of Heinrich Graetz and
Simon Dubnov, the most popular Jewish historians of his time, one-sidedly focused
on suffering, martyrdom, and harsh persecution, and ignored the happy sides of life
as well as the strong vital impulses inherent in human nature:
We [...] like others, led a full life and had contacts with the outside world [...]
even in the Middle Ages Jews were not locked in their ghettos, as the historians
wrote, and their life was not as shabby and murky as indicated in histories.15
Such ‘ghetto myths’ were also rejected by Max Weinreich, although in a less
polemic and more nuanced way.16 But whereas Weinreich’s studies, in one way or
another, focused on cultural life, Opatoshu’s view embraced also the less cultured
sides of human nature.
What Opatoshu presented, so to speak, as an antidote to Graetz and Dubnow,
was a synthesis of Yiddishist Spielmann theory and his own vitalism rooted in
Naturalism and American Modernism. In an atmosphere of crisis and disillusion
after the First World War, various forms of vitalism caused a strong but diffuse
undercurrent in the European and American literatures, in particular in the genre of
the historical novel.17 In creating their fictional models of the world, many writers
(first- as well as second-rate) implicitly depicted, if they did not celebrate, human
instincts, passions, and drives as chaotic manifestations of a vital force (understood
in a vague Bergsonian, Freudian, Nietzschean, vulgar-biologist or whatever sense)
determining history in a rather unspecified manner. Without doubt, Opatoshu’s
outlook on life was affected by those literary echoes of Zeitgeist. His individual
style of writing, which he shaped face to face with the stylistic innovations of the
American naturalists and modernists of his time — Opatoshu was familiar with
the works of Theodore Dreiser, Sherwood Anderson, Upton Sinclair, Sinclair

Lewis, John Dos Passos, and Ernest Hemingway18 — exposed this vitalist trait of
his literary oeuvre rather than concealing it under a romanticist mantle. The style
is basically naturalist (however, symbols are employed) and shows a preference for
condensed descriptions. Despite the social commitment that is tangible in all of
Opatoshu’s works, the third-person narrator rarely ever judges amoral behaviour
depicted in the story. At the same time, many of his characters are ‘typological’ (to
avoid the inadequate and problematic term ‘stock characters’) in that they may be
interpreted as epitomes of certain attitudes towards life or social roles.
Profane Life
The ideological contexts of the novel — Yiddishist Spielmann theory, ‘secularism’,
and literary vitalism — become obvious in Opatoshu’s depiction of profane life.
The yeshive-bokherim (Yeshiva students) and ordinary Jews, who assemble in the
court of the synagogue, display some coarse manners and make crude jokes;19
some are lecherous,20 the Jewish beggars are vulgar, impudent, and rude;21 and the
leytsonim from Prague perform one song and dance after another. A tog in Regensburg
is abundant with hilarity, dancing, singing, reciting, with zingen un zogn (in fact, a
bit too much for a novel eighty-five pages long). Some of the jokes of the jesters are
just as bawdy as a well-respected Yiddish writer like Opatoshu could risk.22 The
songs are non-religious and mundane, and some are earthly.
Opatoshu’s vision of this particular sphere of life was inspired by the study of a
number of Yiddish codices and books that Max Erik had labelled (at least in parts)
as records of authentic Spielmannesque folk art. His first and foremost source is a
collection of folk songs primarily adapted from German, which was attributed
to the parnes ( Jewish community leader) Eisik Wallich of Worms (c. 1600).23
Throughout the entire novel, one finds overt and hidden quotations from these
works. A few examples must suffice here. Opatoshu used the first lines of an often-
quoted wedding song from the Wallich collection — ‘Ikh efn mayn mund | mit zism
gezang’ (I open my mouth | with sweet song) — as a solemn prothalamium for the
opening of the festivities.24 From a Purim song of the same manuscript, he adapted
the idiomatic phrase ‘kurtse droshes un langer bratn’, literally ‘brief sermons and a long
roast meat’, here meaning ‘short on edification and long on entertainment’.25 In a
similar vein, the drinking song of the Prague jesters is taken verbatim from Erik’s
exemplary quotes from an anonymous Yiddish translation of Ibn Gabirols ‘Song
about the Water’.26
In addition, Optatoshu adapted or closely translated German folk songs, such as
the frivolous ‘Ich bin bin ein junges Weibchen’ (A fair young wife am I), for which
there is no model in the Early Yiddish manuscripts that have come down to us.27
This seventeenth-century song, still popular in Germany in Opatoshu’s day, has a
tangible track record of prohibition and censorship.28 It should be mentioned here
that neither the songs of the Wallich manuscript nor the other works of ‘mundane’
Early Yiddish literature cited by the Yiddishist scholars entirely lack frivolity,
ribaldry, or obscenity.29 Opatoshu probably chose the German song text to amplify
a particular scene — a Prague actor-woman dancing with a stupid lecherous
116 Roland Gruschka
baker in the courtyard30 — because the lyrics depict frivolity from a female
perspective.
As we see, most of the figures in this novel are, in one way or another, creatures
of impulse, or sensual characters, who, however, often act in quite a banal way; this
corresponds exactly to Opatoshu’s vitalist and eroticist vision of modern life. Here
are a few examples. The wealthy merchant Lemlin Sachse, a bon vivant with a bad
reputation as a womanizer,31 f lirts with the Prague dancer Royzlin ‘Rose’ until
pounced upon by his outraged wife. Royzlin is a far echo of Theodore Dreiser’s
character Sister Carrie (1900) or a mild version of the eponymous hero of Opatoshu’s
novel Di tentsern (1929) — a materialistic, unintellectual, basically self-centred girl,
exerting her charm on elderly boastful and coveting male admirers in order to catch
some piece of jewellery.32 She is even ready to quit a relationship for the chance
of advancement, i.e. to become a ‘success’ at the prince’s court.33 At one moment,
however, she displays an experienced and hard-nosed outlook on life, which fits
with her less respectable position as an actor-woman, but allows for a multi-faceted
reading: ‘niks krigt men bekhinem... niks...’ [‘In this world of ours,] you get
nought for nought. ... Nought.’ 34 The punctuation used here may indicate a slightly
sentimental undertone — as if Royzlin once had entered ‘the big world’ as a naïve
girl and then, not unlike Dreiser’s ‘Carrie’, learned her lessons.
As a matter of course (and in accordance with Erik’s depiction of that profession),
the Prague Jewish leytsonim in the novel consort with Christian goliards.35 In
drinking excesses, both sides recognize each other as ‘comrades’ of the same walk
of life and use a Latinized common idiom. The itinerant yeshive-bokherim nourish
their dreams of escaping the social constraints of their religious community with
treyfene romantsn, ‘impure romances’, which they carry with them on their aimless
wandering.36
In a way, Opatoshu summarizes his own eroticist vitalism in the proverb given by
‘a bent old woman’:37 ‘on fayer bakt men niks — niks’ ‘You can bake nothing without
fire, nothing at all.’38 In so doing, he has reworked a neutral idiom used in an Early
Yiddish epic, thus presenting his personal vision as age-old folk wisdom.39
Social Borders and Contacts

In accordance with Yiddishist literary history, Opatoshu portrays the wandering
leytsonim and itinerant yeshive-bokherim as the creative ferment of Old Ashkenaz,
and, in a broader sense, as the epitome of intellectuals on the one hand, and of folk
artists on the other. In the novel, both groups differ only in their level of education
and, vice versa, their ability to perform. To make the Yiddishist model work,
Opatoshu allows his figures to cross the borders between these groups without
difficulty. For example, the Regensburg yeshive-bokher Zalmen has written a musical
drama ‘Amnon and Tamar’ and manages to interest the minstrel and jester Fishl in
it.40 Fishl is one of the principals of the Prague troupe and also a former Yeshiva
student.41 As an option, he in a depressive mood considers settling down and joining
the Regensburg Yeshiva.42 In a conversation with a book-peddler, he turns out to
be an old friend of Elie Bocher himself, knowing even the family and the in-laws
personally.43 Opatoshu can hardly be blamed for contriving such a link between his
fictional hero and the historical figure, between the demi-monde bohemian Fishl
and the grammarian and scholar Elia Levita, since he obviously relied on Max Erik,
who crowned the latter with the title ‘the last Yiddish Spielmann’.44 Even the Jewish
beggars claim to be versed in the arts of Spielmann entertainment — and get hired
when the community is in need for it.45 With regard to the fictional world of his
novel, Opatoshu’s Yiddishism is Jewish-national rather than left-leaning. Although
the social stratification of Old Ashkenazi society is exposed by the attitudes of the
characters, there is hardly a substitute for a ‘class struggle’ in a Marxian sense.
Internal Conf licts of the Jewish Community

It should be stressed here that Opatoshu’s vision of life in Old Ashkenaz is not idyllic
or harmonic. On the contrary, the conf lict between the ‘religious’ and the ‘secular’,
between the mundane earthly joys and the traditional Jewish values, is vividly
illustrated on several occasions. Not only does an elderly woman disapprove of the
hilarity inside the synagogue courtyard,46 but so does the head of the Yeshiva,47
a learned Sephardi whom Opatoshu made the Jewish epitome of a puritanical
religious leader. The dean’s semi-fictional diatribes against Jews attending dance
halls and consorting with Gentiles in all forms of profane entertainment have a
historical base in similar verdicts of rabbis quoted by Max Erik from fourteenth–
sixteenth-century documents.48 His condemning of Dietrich von Bern and Dos sheyne
glik (‘The Pretty Luck’) as ‘aytl znus un nibl-pe’ or ‘filth and abomination’ echoes the
admonitions against such profane literature, which the Yiddishist scholar Nokhem
Shtif discovered as a frequent topos in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Yiddish
books of a more edifying character.49 Consequently, the head of the Yeshiva
intervenes with the rich merchant Belasser to ensure that only pious and decent tales
will be sung at the wedding.50 All in all, however, the religious authorities seem
to have only a limited control over the mundane needs of the ordinary Jews — at
least in Opatoshu’s novel.
The Expulsion of 1519 and the Rise of Nazism

It has been noted that the last chapter of A tog in Regensburg was probably composed
after 1930, in the years when the situation of the Jews in Europe deteriorated
rapidly.51 Therefore it is not surprising to find a hidden break in the development of
the story. The merry, hilarious atmosphere suddenly turns dark, and the expulsion of
1519 — which was not even mentioned in the preceding chapters — casts a shadow
on the wedding. In that situation, the famous Shtadlan Yoselman of Rosheim and
‘kurfirsht Karl’ — the later emperor Charles V, whom Opatoshu ahistorically makes
the ‘prince-elector’ of Bavaria — appear in Regensburg.52 In this way, Opatoshu
shifts the focus on Jewish–Christian relations and ‘politics’. It would be a mistake,
however, to declare the entire last chapter a mere afterthought. There are a number
of motifs introduced in the preceding chapters, which are fully developed only at
the end of the novel.
118 Roland Gruschka
The Dance of Death

Nothing is more suitable to illustrate this continuity than the prince-elector and
the dance of death. At first, ‘the prince’ — in this part of the novel he has not yet
even been named by the author — and his court are just an imaginary option for
a successful career, brought into the discussion by the boastful Lemlin Sachse.53
The motif of the ‘Death Dance-tune’, on the other hand, is used to illustrate the
contrary characters of Fishl and Royzlin, who do not match as a couple.54 In the last
chapter of the novel, however, the two motifs are merged: the young prince-elector
and his retinue visit the Jewish wedding ceremony, and at a special request, the
Jewish leytsonim perform a dance of death: ‘Der kurfirsht hot lib tsu zeen, vi yidn tantsn
dem toytn-tants’, ‘The Elector dearly loved the Jewish Death Dance’.55 For this act,
Opatoshu contrived a fictitious, specifically Jewish choreography which included
the ‘eykho-nign’ (Eicha tune), the traditional melody used for reading the Book
of Lamentations on the Ninth of Av, and Jewish figures — a parnes (community
leader), jester, meshumed (apostate), and prophet — appearing on stage.56 The
very choice of these Jewish dance roles is deliberately ahistorical and typological,
employed to make the ‘Jewish Death Dance’ an easy-to-recognize allegory on
Jewish politics and fate in the early twentieth century, as seen through the eyes of
the Jewish intellectuals themselves. In a surprising, slapstick-like turn of action, the
wealthy Lemlin Sachse is compelled to take part in the performance, all this to the
great amusement of the prince-elector.57
As dark and gloomy as this allegoric scene may seem, in writing it Opatoshu
had a historical model before him that was quite merry and even optimistic. In
her memories, Glikl Hameln (1646–1724) describes the wedding of her oldest
daughter in the Duchy of Cleve, which was graced by the young prince-elector of
Brandenburg and his lively retinue.58 As a special event for these honourable guests,
a band of merrymakers performed, as Glikl wrote, a touten-tants:
Zou zenen velkhe far-shtelt hinayn gekumen un zikh prezentirt gor shen un
aler-hant posen gemakht di tsu ayner ergetslikhkayt gedint hoben. Tsu lest
hoben di far-shtelte ayn touten-tants gemakht, izt der rar gevezen.59
[Then appeared masked performers who bowed prettily and played all manner
of entertaining pranks. They concluded their performance with a truly splendid
Dance of Death.]60
As a historical source on Jewish life in seventeenth-century Germany, this brief
passage raises more questions than it answers. First of all, it remains an open question
if these pranksters actually had been Jewish. For Glikl, their identity was irrelevant
rather than self-evident. Moreover, it seems unlikely that the touten-tants mentioned
by Glikl was a danse macabre in the classical, outspoken Christian mystery-play style,
presenting a sequence of figures from all walks of life, which are taken away by the
grim reaper.61 Therefore, several alternative explanations have been suggested, but
without finally settling the issue.62 To be fair, Nokhem Shtif and Max Erik were
careful not to define the choreography of this particular dance without evidence.63
However, their general treatment of the subject ‘dance of death’ in Early Yiddish
literature remained vague enough to leave room for speculation.64 Thus Joseph
Opatoshu could give free rein to his creative imagination.
This is not the only scene taken from Glikl and reworked for the final chapter.
In the haste and excitement caused by the arrival of the prince, there is no time to
write a ketubah (prenuptial agreement) or to count the dowry.65 Like Glikls in-law
Elias Cleve, the father of the groom is about to give the elector a ‘small gold watch
set with diamonds’ as a present, for ‘zolkhe firshtn fargesn zolkhe zakhn nit’, ‘princes
never forget such things’.66 (The Yiddish phrase is taken more or less verbatim from
Glikl.)67 But whereas in Glikl’s memories this idea occurred to Elias Cleve in a
festive mood, in the novel the greedy Lemlin Sachse takes a chance to impose his
overpriced object on the merchant Belasser.
The contrast of the historical material provided by Glikl and Opatoshu’s
reworked vision is significant. For Glikl, the wedding of her daughter was a high
light of her life. However ambiguous her relations with the Gentile world may
usually have been, there can be no doubt that her impression of the ‘young prince’
was favourable, and that the attendance of the distinguished Christian guests
was not viewed as an intrusion, but as a grace and an extraordinary honour.68 If
Opatoshu had wanted to, the material provided by Glikl would have given him
the opportunity to depict the wedding episode — including the attendance of
the prince and the dance performance — in A tog in Regensburg in much brighter
colours than he actually did.
For all this, one may speculate whether Opatoshu originally had intended to
conclude his novel with the wedding episode as the great finale, but did not come to
terms with that idea before 1930, and when he finally returned to it, chose to work
it out as a dark scenario. In any case, his use of the findings of Yiddishist scholarship
and his artist vision of life also underwent a significant transformation, as will be
demonstrated in the following section.
Politics
In a series of essays and interviews given in the 1930s, Opatoshu outlined his concept
of the Jews as a velt-folk, a cosmopolitan people with the ‘logos’ and ‘the (Divine)
word’, i.e. ‘the book’ or literary heritage, as its portable home — an allusion to
Heinrich Heine.69 For Opatoshu, it was precisely this synthesis of cosmopolitanism
and a ‘portable’ cultural heritage that enabled the Jews to survive as a people in
history — as an Eternal People, rejuvenating and restoring itself culturally and
physically ‘like the legendary [Phoenix]’.70 Notably, his narrative of world history
credited the Chinese and the Pilgrim Fathers with similar gifts.71 All the more
notable is the fact that even in 1938 Opatoshu rejected with verve what he felt to
be a reactionary, pessimist ghetto patriotism among Jewish intellectuals.72 For him,
the Jewish people had to play a unique role as a kultur-treger, a cultural ferment for
the Gentile civilizations, and had actively to participate in the struggle for universal
human liberation.73
Jewish existence as defined in those terms comes close to what artists of whatever
nation could achieve for mankind. Moreover, in A tog in Regensburg Opatoshu
120 Roland Gruschka
employed a number of subplots and characters that allow him to deal in a subtle
way with the role of the writer and intellectual in modern society, in other words,
with his own social role. It may not be incidental, for instance, that the name of
the book-peddler Yoysef ben Tenhoyzen,74 one of the characters, recalls Opatoshu’s
genealogy.75 For all this, it is not surprising that Joseph Opatoshu in the 1930s
decided to end his novel A tog in Regensburg with his personal credo, which is both
universalist and Jewish-national. As his mouthpiece, he chose the characters of
Fishl and his Regensburg colleague Leyb. In the novel, Leyb figures as the author
of the famous Shmuel-bukh, a popular Midrashic chivalric epic, which circulated in
manuscript and was first printed in 1544 in Augsburg.76 The authorship of the real
Shmuel-bukh was controversial in the 1920s — in fact, this question remains unsolved
today.77 The Yiddishist narrative created by Max Weinreich and Max Erik declared
it the work of an unknown Jewish Spielmann,78 whereas Opatoshu took the artist’s
liberty to fill this gap of knowledge regardless of historical accuracy. His fictitious
character Leyb is inspired by a real historical figure, the scribe Léve (‘lion’, cf. MHG
lëwe, NHG Löwe, Modern Yiddish leyb) of Regensburg, who produced one of the
extant manuscripts of the epic for a Jewish patroness named Freydlin.79 According to
Yiddishist scholars, this Leve was merely the copyist, not the author.80 However, the
nominal link to Regensburg, perhaps alongside some speculations by Ber Borokhov
regarding Leve’s identity, was perfect for Opatoshu’s imagination of the past.81 In
the beginning rather a marginal figure, Leyb emerges in a dialogue with Fishl as a
visionary Jewish thinker and as the intellectual head of the two artists.
At first, Leyb questions the legitimacy of Dietrich von Bern and other German
chivalric epics in Yiddish literature.82 This fits well with his role in the story, since
the Shmuel-bukh is introduced into the plot as a novelty,83 and as a work commissioned
for the wedding to replace all the ‘filthy’ and ‘vulgar’ entertainment.84
Historically, the original impulse for creating this epic may well have been the
wish for a Jewish alternative to the popular but outspoken Gentile profane reading
matter.85 In any event, Yiddishist scholars in many ways credited the Shmuel-bukh
with a prominent place in literary history. Max Erik praised the innovative style
and conception of the book. For him, the literary tradition of Midrashic epic
inaugurated by this work marked a step towards a new, more original, and Jewish
art of Yiddish storytelling.86 Max Weinreich even went so far as to insinuate that
the Shmuel-bukh was at least less fanatic and more decent and humane than the fetish
of German nationalists, the Nibelungenlied (of which there never had been a Yiddish
adaptation), because it lacked the latter’s gloomy fixation on a narrow-minded
brotherhood-in-arms and an unquestioned principle of loyalty.87
In the final episode of the novel, however, the antagonism of ‘secular’ versus
‘religious’, or ‘earthly joys and frivolity’ versus ‘moral conduct’, which prevailed in
the preceding chapters, is tacitly replaced by or transformed into a new, even more
existential issue. Under the impression of the raising of Nazism, Opatoshu shaped
the speech of his figure Leyb in a way that conveys an anti-assimilationist and
decidedly Jewish nationalist message:
Leyb hot gevolt a kleynikayt — Fishl zol tsugebn, az kinig Dovid, az Yehude
ha-makabi, zenen geven azoyne shtoltse vaygantn, vi di daytshishe kinign un
firshtn. Un Bas-Sheve? In farglaykh mit Bas-Sheven, vos fare ponim hobn shoyn
gekent hobn di sheyne Krimhild, di sheyne Brinhild? [...] ‘Oyb azoy, oyb mir,
kameradn, hobn yo aza ashires, vos darfn mir yidishn a Hildebrant, a Ditrikh,
ven mir hobn an eygenem Dovid, a Yehude ha-makabi, a Bar Kokhve?’88
[In essence, all Leib really wanted was for Fishel to concede that the old Jewish
heroes, men like King David and Judah Maccabeus, were warriors as valiant
as any German kings or princes. And what about Bathsheba? Did not the
lovely Krimhild, and the still lovelier Brunhild, pale in comparison with our
Bathsheba? [...] ‘Since that is so, comrades, and we all agree that we have such
wealth in our own midst, what need have we to Judaize a Hildebrandt and a
Dietrich — we have our own David, our own Judah Maccabeus, our own Bar
Kochba!’]89
At the eve of the expulsion of 1519, these arguments win, and Fishl and Leyb decide
to leave Regensburg and take on the wandering together. The praise of art as a way
to participate in eternity is given in free indirect speech:
Beyde hobn troyerik geshmeykhlt, zikh farshtanen, az dos alts iz shoym, vos
kumt un farshvindt. S’lebn iz nit farshvenderish. Git es eynem di velt, git es nit
yene-velt. Di eybikayt ober iz zeyers — Leyb’s, Fishl’s.90
[Sadly they smiled in mutual understanding: this was but froth, ephemeral froth
that comes and goes. Life, they knew, is no spendthrift. When it gives you this
world, it withholds the world to come.91 But eternity was theirs — Leib’s and
Fishel’s.]92
Remarkably, Opatoshu here reverts to a neo-romantic concept, as if ultimately to
transcend the eroticist vitalism of the previous chapters.
The national programme to which Opatoshu adhered is outlined by Leyb, who
takes the role of an intellectual precursor of modern Yiddishism. Thus in a bold
and simple way, the (historically documented) semantic change of the concept
‘Ashkenaz’ is presented in statu nascendi and associated with a future, primarily
language-based identity:93
Far Leybn iz Ashkenaz mer, vi di shtet arum beyde zaytn Rayn. Far im iz
‘Ashkenaz’ — Velsh-land, Tsorfes, afile Stambul — umetum, vu men redt
‘undzer loshn’, vu men redt yidish. Er, Leyb, hot dem ‘Shmuel-bukh’, hot a
‘Bar Kokhve-shpil’, halt bam farendikn a ‘Geyresh-Shpanye-shpil’. Vi Fishl zet,
lozt zikh Leyb in veg arayn mit nit keyn leydike hent.94
[For Leib, Ashkenaz meant far more than merely the cities on either side of
the Rhine. To him, Ashkenaz was Italy, France, even Stamboul — wherever
Yiddish was spoken. Leib had composed a ‘Samuel Book,’ and a ‘Bar Kochba
Play,’ and was about to finish a play entitled, Exile from Spain. As Fishel could
see, Leib was not setting forth empty-handed.]95
It is worth noting what kind of subjects Leyb regards as essential for the Yiddish
national literature of the future: even the Shmuel-bukh and its chivalric Midrash epic
centred on heroes of the Hebrew Bible is going to be supplemented by supposedly
heroic tragedies marking the beginning of exile (Bar Kochba) and wanderings
(Geyresh-Shpanye), as if to prepare the Jewish people for future ordeals, its fight for
existence, and finally national independence, if not statehood. Not surprisingly, in
122 Roland Gruschka
the 1930s Opatoshu repeatedly invoked in his speeches the expulsion of 1492 as a
crucial moment in history in which far-reaching decisions regarding Jewish identity
and Jewish existence had been taken.96
In reality, however, the first Yiddish playwright to stage a Bar Kochba drama
was no ‘Leyb of Regensburg’ or any other early modern Spielmann, but Avrom
Goldfaden in 1881. After the outbreak of the Second World War, Opatoshu himself
turned to this subject and composed the novel Der letster ufshtand (The Last Revolt),
centred on Rabbi Akiva and Bar Kochba, the leading figures of the last Maccabean
war. When he finally completed his work, the State of Israel had been established,
an event that, in a way, challenged his 1930s concept of a Jewish velt-folk.97 Thus
Opatoshu’s vision of Jewish life and history underwent another transformation.
Notes to Chapter 8
1. On Yiddishism and scholarship, see David E. Fishman, The Rise of Modern Yiddish Culture
(Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005); Barry Trachtenberg, The Revolutionary Roots
of Modern Yiddish, 1903–1917 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2008); idem, ‘Inscribing
the Yiddish Past: Inter-war Explorations of Old Yiddish Texts’, in Yiddish and the Left, ed. by
Gennady Estraikh and Mikhail Krutikov (Oxford: Legenda, 2001), pp. 208–25.
2. Another, perhaps more prominent, writer inspired by Early Yiddish literature was Itzik Manger
in his Medresh Itsik (Itsik’s Midrash, 1951).
3. Joseph Opatoshu, A tog in Regensburg; un, Elye Bokher (New York: E. Malino, 1933). This original
Yiddish version is quoted as Y. An English translation of A tog in Regensburg is available in the
following collection: Joseph Opatoshu, A Day in Regensburg, trans. from the Yiddish by Jacob
Sloan, with a personal memoir by David Opatoshu (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of
America, 1968). In the present chapter, this translation is referred to as E. Where I had to alter
the English version in order to render the original meaning and connotations more accurately,
I specify my modifications in notes. As a rule, however, I retained the names in the form given
in the Yiddish original. Unless otherwise stated, all translations from Yiddish are mine.
4. A paper on Opatoshu’s use of Early Yiddish is in preparation.
5. Cf. [anonymous], ‘Groyser erfolg [sic] fun Y. Opatoshus “A tog in Regensburg”’, Literarishe bleter,
11 (19 January 1934), 37; Arn Glants-Leyeles, ‘A notits vegn Opatoshus “A tog in Regensburg”’,
Naye yontef-bleter, peysakh-bleter (April 1934), 42–43; Binyomin Grobard, ‘A tog in Regensburg
un Elye Bokher’, Der ufkum, 8 (1933), 1–4; Nakhmen Mayzel, ‘Y. Opatoshus nay maysterverk’,
Literarishe bleter, 10 (21 April 1933), 255–56 (repr. in Haynt, 26 (28 July 1933), 7); Yitskhok Shiper,
‘Y. Opatoshus naye historishe dertseylungen’, Literarishe bleter 10/23–25 (9/16/23 June 1933),
370–71, 388, 402–03; Naftole Veynig, ‘Bamerkungen tsu Opatoshus nay bukh’, Vokhnshrift far
literatur, kunst un kultur, 3 (18 August 1933), 2.
6. For instance, cf. Itsik Fefer, ‘Untergang’, Di royte velt, 9/1–3 (1933), 181–59. Avrom-Ber
Tabatshnik rejected Opatoshu’s naturalism and obviously favoured a more romantic model of
the historical novel, see his critical review ‘A tog in Regensburg’, Masn, 1 (1934), 28–38.
7. Cf. Khone Shmeruk, ‘Tsi ken der Keymbridzher manuskript shtitsn di shpilman-teorye in der
yidisher literatur?’, in Prokim fun der yidisher literaturgeshikhte (Tel Aviv: I. L. Peretz, 1988), pp.
97–120 (first publ. in Di goldene keyt, 100 (1979), 251–71; transl. in English as Chone [Khone]
Shmeruk, ‘Can the Cambridge Manuscript Support the Spielmann Theory in Yiddish Literature?’,
in Studies in Yiddish Literature and Folklore, ed. by Chava [Khava] Turniansky, Research Projects
of the Institute of Jewish Studies: Monograph Series, 7 ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1986),
pp. 1–36).
8. Cf. Max Erik, Geshikhte fun der yidisher literatur: fun di eltste tsaytn biz der haskole-tkufe (Warsaw:
Kultur-Lige, 1928), pp. 67–175 (pp. 69–75).
9. Ibid.
10. Cf. Max Erik, Vegn altyidishn roman un novele (Warsaw: Meyer Rayz, 1926), pp. 16–27; Erik,
Geshikhte, pp. 67–175; Max Weinreich, Bilder fun der yidisher literaturgeshikhte: fun di onheybn biz
Mendele Moykher-Sforim (Vilne: Tomor, 1928), pp. 56–67 (p. 60, fn. 1).
11. Cf. Israel Zinberg, Di geshikhte fun der literatur bay yidn, 8 vols (Vilne: Tomor, 1929–1937; repr.
New York: Sklarsky, 1943), vi (1935), 137; cf. also Shmeruk, ‘Can the Cambridge Manuscript
Support the Spielmann Theory in Yiddish Literature?’, pp. 17–18, 31–32 (fn. 46).
12. Cf. the criticism by Hans Naumann, ‘Versuch einer Einschränkung des romantischen Begriffs
Spielmannsdichtung’, Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte, 2
(1924), 777–94. (On Naumann’s involvement in Nazi cultural politics, cf. Otfrid Ehrismann,
‘Naumann, Hans’, in Internationales Germanistenlexikon 1800–1950, ed. by Christoph König and
Birgit Wägenbaur, 3 vols (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), ii, 1307–10.) See also the discussion by
Michael Curschmann, ‘Spielmannsepik: Wege und Ergebnisse der Forschung von 1907–1965’,
Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte, 4 (1966), 434–78, 597–649.
13. ‘Can the Cambridge Manuscript Support the Spielmann Theory in Yiddish Literature?’, p. 23.
14. Cf. Nokhem Shtif, ‘Ditrikh fun Bern: yidishkayt un veltlekhkayt in der alter yidisher literatur’,
Yidishe filologye, 1 (1924), 1–11, 112–22; Weinreich, Bilder, pp. 50–55, 67; Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 79,
139, 163.
15. Quoted after Charles A. Madison, Yiddish Literature: Its Scope and Major Writers, 2nd edn (New
York: Schocken, 1968), pp. 326–47 (pp. 338–39). Cf. also ibid., pp. 331–32; Sol Liptzin, A History
of Yiddish Literature, 2nd edn (New York: Jonathan David, 1985), pp. 169–70.
16. Cf. Weinreich, Bilder, p. 99.
17. Cf. e.g. Fritz-Wilhelm Neumann, Der englische historische Roman im 20. Jahrhundert (Heidelberg:
Winter, 1993).
18. Cf. Elyohu Shulman, ‘A bazukh bay Y. Opatoshu’, Literarishe bleter, 47 (27 November 1933),
741–43.
19. Y, 20/E, 12.
20. Y, 35/E, 27.
21. Y, 23–24, 27–28, 79/E, 16–17, 20–21, 73.
22. Cf. Y, 53/E, 45–46.
23. Cf. Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 131–75 (p. 133, 135, 140–44, 151, 153, 163–69). On the so-called Wallich
manuscript, see Shtif, pp. 3, 6–10, 115; Weinreich, Bilder, pp. 60–61; Zinberg, vi, 104–09; see
also the bibliographical references given in Early Yiddish Texts 1100–1750, ed. by Jerold C. Frakes
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 472–74.
24. See Y, 80; cf. Felix Rosenberg, ‘Über eine Sammlung deutscher Volks- und Gesellschaftslieder
in hebräischen Lettern’, Zeitschrift für die Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland, 1st instalment:
2 (1888), 232–96 (p. 289), 2nd instalment: 3 (1889), 14–28 (p. 27, no. 88); Zinberg, vi, 108.
Preserving meter and rhyme, Sloan translates: ‘I open my lips | to sing my sweet lay’ (E, 80).
25. Cf. Y, 38; Shtif, p. 7, fn. Sloan translates ‘short on talk and long on action’ (E, 31), which also
makes sense in this context.
26. Cf. Y, 68–69/E, 62; Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 174–75.
27. Cf. Y, 36/E, 28. One of the earliest versions of this song was discovered in the notebook of a
Leipzig student of 1669; cf. Arthur Kopp, Deutsches Volks- und Studenten-Lied in vorklassischer Zeit
(Berlin: Hertz, 1899), pp. 24, 29, 61–62, 175–76. See also Futilitates: Beiträge zur volkskundlichen
Erotik, ed. by Emil Karl Blümml and others, 3 vols (Wien: Röttig, 1908), i, 23–26, 83–86; iii,
70–78, 130–32.
28. For instance, the title is listed on an index of ‘obnoxious’ printed song texts which had been
confiscated by order in the margravate of Upper Lusatia (Saxony) in 1802; see ‘Verzeichniß
der im Verlage der verwittweten Solbrigin zu Leipzig herausgekommenen Volkslieder, welche
anbefohlnermaaßen confisciret worden sind. Anno 1802’, in Collection der das Markgrafthum
Oberlausitz betreffenden Gesetze und Anordnungen, v (Budissin [Bautzen]: E. G. Monse, 1824), pp.
193–95 (p. 194). On the continuing popularity of this song cf. Kopp, p. 62.
29. Cf. e.g. Zinberg, vi, 108.
30. Cf. Y, 35–36/E, 27–29.
31. Cf. Y, 57–59/E, 49–52.
32. Cf. Y, 49–51, 65, 71/E, 64, 58–60, 42–44. Inspiration for the naming of this character probably
came from a ‘jester-woman’ Royze, which Erik found listed in a register of Prague Jews of 1546;
124 Roland Gruschka
cf. Erik, Geshikhte, p. 75. Similarities between Royzlin and the ‘dancer’ or other heroines of
Opatoshu’s works were first noted by Avrom-Ber Tabatshnik, pp. 30–31.
33. Cf. Y, 54–55, 65–66, 88–91/E, 47–48, 58–60, 82–86.
34. Cf. Y, 71/E, 64. Note that the punctuation of the English translation slightly differs from the
Yiddish original.
35. Cf. Y, 55–56/E, 48–49; Erik, Vegn altyidishn roman, p. 19.
36. Cf. Y, 22/E, 14. Sloan translates treyfene romantsn as ‘profane “romances”’ (ibid.).
37. Cf. Y, 57/E, 50.
38. See Y, 63/E, 57.
39. In the Shmuel-bukh (see below, fn. 76) some figures use the expression ‘do vern kikhlekh gebakt on
fayer’ ‘here they bake cookies without fire’, see Erik, Geshikhte, p. 121.
40. Cf. Y, 31–32, 44–47/E, 23–25, 37–40.
41. Cf. Y, 32/E, 24.
42. Y, 39/E, 32.
43. Y, 43/E, 35–36.
44. See Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 177–202 (p. 185).
45. Cf. Y, 23, 25–26/E, 15–16, 18–19.
46. Y, 35/E, 28.
47. Y, 27/E, 19–20.
48. Cf. Y, 27/E, 19–20; Erik, Geshikhte, p. 83; Zinberg, v, 57, vi, 105–06.
49. Cf. Y, 45/E, 38. On the anti-Dietrich topos in Early Yiddish literature, see Shtif, pp. 2, 5, 8; Erik,
Geshikhte, pp. 356–57; Weinreich, Bilder, pp. 54–55, 61, 149–51; cf. also Shmeruk, Prokim, pp.
36–45. The title Dos sheyne glik alludes to a lost work by Elia Levita, see Shmeruk, Prokim, p.
44.
50. Cf. Y, 45/E, 38.
51. See Sabine Koller, ‘Geborgen in der Schrift: Joseph Opatoshu, Marc Chagall und die Erzählung
Ein Tag in Regensburg’, in Ein Tag im jüdischen Regensburg mit Joseph Opatoshu und Marc Chagall,
ed. by Sabine Koller (Passau: Karl Stutz, 2009), pp. 13–28 (pp. 13–14). Compared with the final
edition (here abbreviated as Y), the 1930 version ends on p. 70 (cf. E, 64), in the middle of
chapter 8.
52. Cf. Y, 54, 65, 83–85, 87/E, 47, 59, 77–79, 82. The Habsburg prince Charles was elected king
and Holy Roman Emperor in 1519, just as in the novel ‘Elector Karl might well become king
tomorrow or the day after’ (E, 78). At the beginning of the sixteenth century, however, Bavaria
was neither an electorate, nor ruled by the Habsburgs, nor did the Habsburgs rank as electors.
53. Cf. Y, 65/E, 59–60.
54. Cf. Y, 54–55/E, 47–48.
55. Y, 84/E, 78.
56. Cf. Y, 88, 89–90/E, 83, 84–85. Sloan’s English translation obliterates the specific Jewish
connotations of Eykho ‘Eicha, Book of Lamentations’: ‘It was the Jew’s harp, mourning in a side
room, setting the mood for the Death Dance’ (E, 84–85).
57. Cf. Y, 92–93/E, 86–88.
58. Cf. Glikl, Zikhroynes [Memoires] 1691–1719, ed. and trans. by Chava Turniansky ( Jerusalem:
Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2006), pp.
266–73 [Yiddish and Hebrew]. Cf. also The Memoirs of Glückel of Hameln, trans. by Marvin
Lowenthal, 2nd edn, with a new introduction by Robert Rosen (New York: Schocken, 1977;
1st edn, New York: Harper, 1932), pp. 97–99; Denkwürdigkeiten der Glückel von Hameln, ed. by
Alfred Feilchenfeld (Berlin: Jüdischer Verlag, 1920), pp. 118–22. See also the introduction and
bibliographical references given by Frakes, Early Yiddish Texts, pp. 864–67.
59. Cf. Glikl, p. 272 (my transcription). Note that the vocalism of Glikl’s Western Yiddish dialect
differs from that of Modern Standard Yiddish (e.g. touten-tants vs. toytn-tants, or shen vs. sheyn).
On Glikl’s language, see Erika Timm’s analysis ‘Leshonah shel Glikl’ in Glikl, pp. 61–86; and
Erika Timm, ‘Glikls Sprache vor ihrem sozialhistorischen und geographischen Hintergrund’,
in Die Hamburger Kauffrau Glikl: Jüdische Existenz in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. by Monika Richarz
(Hamburg: Christians, 2001), pp. 49–67.
60. The Memoirs of Glückel of Hameln, p. 99.
61. For an old-standard account of the danse macabre in history, see e.g. Franz Magnus Böhme,
Geschichte des Tanzes in Deutschland, 2 vols (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1889), i, 45–48.
62. Referring to Böhme (i, 49, 210, 322–23), Max Grunwald suggested that the touten-tants
mentioned by Glikl was in fact a social dance or dance game playing on the motif of death, see
his ‘Aus unseren Sammlungen’, Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für jüdische Volkskunde, 3 (1899), 3–44
(p. 39). Surprisingly, Grunwald seems to have overlooked another possible explanation: Böhme
(i, 60–61) also describes a more pantomimic mimicry-version of this dance, which allegedly
had been a popular entertainment on weddings in seventeenth-century Hungary. For other
hypotheses and further reading, see the bibliographical references in Glikl, p. 272, fn. 148.
63. Cf. Shtif, p. 116; Erik, Geshikhte, p. 142–43. For Erik’s account of Glikl’s place in the history of
Yiddish literature, see his Geshikhte, pp. 394–407.
64. Cf. e.g. Shtif, p. 7–9.
65. Cf. Y, 85, 86/E, 79, 80–81; Glikl, p. 270.
66. Y, 87–88/E, 82.
67. Cf. Glikl, p. 272. For this quote, Opatoshu probably had David Kaufmann’s 1896 edition of
the original Yiddish text at hand, which is based on the manuscript version of the so-called
Merzbacher collection, cf. Chava Turniansky’s Introduction in Glikl, pp. 9–50 (p. 45).
68. Cf. Robert Liberles, ‘Die Juden und die anderen: Das Bild der Nichtjuden in Glikls Memoiren’,
in Die Hamburger Kauffrau Glikl, pp. 135–46 (pp. 138–39).
69. Cf. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’ [1938], in Yidish un yidishkayt: eseyen (Toronto: G.
Pomerantz, 1949), pp. 36–42 (pp. 40–41); idem, ‘Yidish’ [1936], ibid., pp. 18–27 (p. 27). See also
[Dovid Roykhl], ‘A geshprekh mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, Literarishe bleter, 15 (21 October 1938),
640–42.
70. Cf. Opatoshu, ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’, pp. 38–40; ‘A gesphrekh mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, p. 641.
71. Ibid.
72. See Opatoshu, ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’, pp. 36–39; ‘A geshprekh mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, pp. 640–41.
73. Cf. Opatoshu, ‘Yidish’, p. 21; idem, ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’, pp. 37–38; ‘A geshprekh mit Yoysef
Opatoshu’, p. 641.
74. Cf. Y, 41/E, 34.
75. Cf. Liptzin, History, p. 166: ‘Opatoshu traced his ancestry on his father’s side to Reb Meir of
Tannhausen [sic] [...] This earliest known ancestor left Franconia [sic] in 1522 and settled in the
Polish city of Posen’. See also Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Reb Leyb Khaneles — a fargesener mefaresh’,
Yivo bleter, 26 (1945), 50–57 (p. 51).
76. Cf. Y, 12, 45, 80, 82, 95/E, 4, 37, 74, 76, 89. The shpogl-naye mayse fun kinig Dovids hoyf ‘brand
new tale of King David’s court’ (Y, 45; not accurately translated in E, 37 as ‘a new work, called
[sic] Tales of King David’s Court’), of course refers to the Shmuel-bukh. About the historical Shmuel-
bukh, see Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 182–99; Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 78–84, 112–21; Weinreich, Bilder,
pp. 68–111; Zinberg, vi, 125–33. See also the bibliographical references given by Frakes in Early
Yiddish Texts, p. 220.
77. Cf. Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 112–13, 116–18; Weinreich, Bilder, p. 90, 107–11; Zinberg, vi, 125–27. In
particular, Erik’s and Weinreich’s objections (ibid.) against the authorship of Moyshe Esrim-ve-
arbe have not yet successfully been challenged. With all their plausibility, Shmeruk’s arguments
supporting that theory (see his Prokim, pp. 114–15) do not constitute a definite proof.
78. Cf. Erik, Geshikhte, p. 79, 114, 118; Weinreich, Bilder, p. 106; Zinberg, vi, 127.
79. Cf. Erik, Geshikhte, p. 113.
80. Weinreich, Bilder, pp. 68–69, 90, 110; Erik, Geshikhte, p. 113; Zinberg, vi, 126.
81. Borokhov attempted to identify Leve with Judah bar Israel of Regensburg, the author of Mishle
khakhomim (1566), later also known as the Kleyn brant-shpigl, cf. Erik, Geshikhte, p. 113, 288; on
this work see Zinberg, vi, 304–05; Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 316–17; Sol Liptzin, ‘Altschul, Moses ben
Hanokh’, in Encyclopaedia Judaica, ed. by Fred Skolnik and Michael Berenbaum, 2nd edn, 22 vols
(Detroit: Macmillan, 2007), ii, 28.
82. Y, 81/E, 75.
83. Cf. Y, 45, 80, 82, 95/E, 38, 74, 76, 89.
84. Cf. Y, 45/E, 38.
85. Cf. Shmeruk, Prokim, p. 42.
126 Roland Gruschka
86. Cf. Erik, Geshikhte, p. 80, 82; cf. also Zinberg, vi, 125. Surprisingly, the linguistic aspects of the
aesthetic innovation which is represented in the Shmuel-bukh were first pointed out much later
by Khone Shmeruk and others; cf. Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 187–93.
87. See Weinreich, Bilder, p. 100.
88. Y, 82 (emphasis in the original).
89. Cf. E, 76. A note on the translation: I replaced the forms Brunehilde and Krimhilde with those
more common in English belles-lettres today. Moreover, for the verb yidishn I rendered the more
unspecific form ‘to Judaize’ instead of the phrase used by the translator ‘make [a Hildebrandt
and a Dietrich] into Jews’, which, however, may connote the secondary meaning ‘to circumcise’
more strongly. Note that in Opatoshu’s times the verb yidishn in certain contexts could also
mean ‘to translate into Yiddish’, cf. Alexander Harkavy, Yidish-english-hebreisher verterbukh, 4th
edn (New York: Hebrew Publishing Co., 1928), s.v. yidishn.
90. Y, 94–95 (emphasis in the original).
91. Sloan’s translation is not accurate here: ‘What it gives to one, it withholds from another’ (E,
89).
92. Cf. E, 89.
93. On the concept of ‘Ashkenaz’, cf. e.g. Max Weinreich, ‘Ashkenaz: di yidish-tkufe in der yidisher
geshikhte’, Yivo bleter, 35 (1951), 7–17.
94. Y, 95.
95. E, 89.
96. Cf. e.g. ‘Vos iz yidishkayt?’, p. 36, 42; ‘A geshprekh mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, p. 640.
97. Cf. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Kiem, nisht umkum’ [1948], in Yidish un yidishkayt: eseyen (Toronto: G.
Pomerantz, 1949), pp. 45–56; idem, ‘Di ideye fun yidish un der yidisher literatur’ [1948], ibid.,
pp. 29–34.
Chapter 9
v
A tog in Regensburg:
Scholarly Research and a Novel’s Outline
Shlomo Berger
Historia scribitur ad narrandum non ad probandum (History is written for the sake of
the story and not in order to investigate truth).1 This Latin adage, referring to the
role of historical writings, insists on the fact that history is engaged with general,
and not particular, truths about the human condition. The story told serves as
an exemplum to be read and internalized by the reader building his own ethical
backbone. Yoysef ( Joseph) Opatoshu’s A tog in Regensburg (A day in Regensburg),
published in 1933, is a novella which tells the story of a wedding celebration in
Regensburg. One of main driving forces of the plot involves the visit of a group
of Jewish comedians who arrive in Regensburg from Prague in order to perform
at this wedding. The comedian, in Yiddish shpilman, is a key figure in Opatoshu’s
narrative. The comedian’s way of life, his/her conduct and behaviour, the culture
he/she performs and represents is pivotal to the novella’s message, and Opatoshu
aims to unfold a subversive tale of Jewish life in the late Middle Ages and early
modern period. A tog in Regensburg is a story about people whose life is not only
dominated by religion and piety but also and maybe predominantly by worldliness
and the corporeal pleasures of life which, consequently, involve a continuous
breaking of rabbinic rules.2 According to Sol Liptzin’s characterization of the
novella, it unfolds a Falstaffian narrative, a story of sheer earthliness.3
The novella’s plot is most likely inspired by a study on the history of Old Yiddish
literature.4 During the 1920s, the scholar Max Erik attempted to construct a new
framework to explain the development of Yiddish literature, which is based on the
so-called ‘Spielmann theory’, which is discussed below.5 Erik’s research is heavily
inf luenced by twentieth-century secular sentiments and Marxist undertones.6
He tacitly aspired to demonstrate that modern Yiddish secular literature is not a
novelty and is in fact based on models which were already common during the
earliest period of the language’s literary history. Original and qualitative Yiddish
literature has always been secular; indeed, religious life and sentiments could have
not produced such quality literature. Subsequently, Erik also attempts to forge a
direct link between the new and old in Yiddish culture. Opatoshu most probably
employed Erik’s ideas, which also heavily emphasized the non-Jewish inf luences
on Old Yiddish culture. As a result, the modern novelist is also defending and
128 Shlomo Berger
praising the worldly rather than the religious nature of modern Yiddish culture and
literature.7
Opatoshu most probably dates his narrative to or just before 1519, when the
Regensburg Jews were expelled from the city.8 Rumours about a possible expulsion
are indeed interspersed in the narrative. The narrative, however, also includes
at least one anachronistic description which goes against the grain of Erik’s
chronology and suppositions. Erik divides the history of Old Yiddish into two
principal periods: the shpilman period up to the middle of the sixteenth century,
and the muser tkufe, or the period of ethical literature, from the middle of the
sixteenth to the middle of the eighteenth century.9 Moreover, the shpilman period
parallels the age of manuscripts, and the ethical literature period begins with the
emergence of print technology and is characterized by the widening distribution of
printed books throughout the Ashkenazi diaspora. At a certain point in the novella
Opatoshu includes a description of a book peddler arriving in Regensburg to sell
books, including Yiddish books.10 However, the first known Yiddish printed text
is, in fact, from Prague in 1526.11 Moreover, it can be suggested that Opatoshu’s
description is at least partially inf luenced by Abramovitsh’s model of book peddlers
(= Mendele Moykher Sforim/Mendele the book peddler), who were certainly
not active at this early stage during the early modern period.12 Clearly Opatoshu
penned an anachronistic description, and wishing to offer another entertaining
story including references to important Old Yiddish texts and books, he took some
poetical licence and ignored historical truths.13
Locating the novella in Regensburg is a deliberate choice because the plot is
based on a study of Old Yiddish and its close connections to German folk culture.
It was therefore appropriate to place the events on German territory. The choice
of Regensburg is fitting. Opatoshu would have read about the history of the local
Jewish community, and he was also acquainted with the history and topography
of the town. He may have been attracted by the city of Rabbi Yehudah ha-Hasid,
a prominent and legendary figure of the medieval Ashkenazi movement Hasidei
Ashkenaz whose teachings he repeatedly mentions in the narrative as representing
Jewish traditional values.14 Opatoshu would have certainly heard about the
connection between the famous Yiddish biblical poem Shmuel bukh (Book of
Samuel, first printed edition 1544) and the city; one of its existing manuscripts is
ascribed to a copyist by the name of Löwe of Regensburg.15
Opatoshu was not unique in his venture; other Yiddish novelists and poets also
made use of Old Yiddish material for their artistic projects. Evidently, Yiddish men
of letters regularly looked beyond the boundaries of space and time, subsequently
internalizing the fact that the annals of Yiddish from the tenth century on form a
whole and unified culture. Celebrated authors as well as those with less acclaim but
talent were able to interweave material from the Old Yiddish literary corpus into
their own modern works. Examples include Isaac Bashevis Singer in his acclaimed
first novel Der Sotn in Goray (Satan in Goray, 1935),16 Meir Wiener’s Kolev Ashkenazi
(1934),17 Itzik Manger’s Midresh Itsik (Itzik’s Midrash),18 and Avrom Sutskever
poems.19 Opatoshu’s reliance on Erik’s Spielmann theory can be considered a logical
and accepted norm in the literary composition processes among Yiddish authors.
A tog in R egensburg 129
Thus, being familiar with Erik’s theory is vital for understanding the manner in
which Opatoshu used the theory for his own artistic project.
A succinct outline of the novella’s plot immediately exposes a catalogue of
ingredients which Opatoshu most probably has picked up from Erik’s work and
his own acquaintance with Old Yiddish. The Jewish community of Regensburg is
preparing itself for a marriage ceremony and celebration. Two rich and inf luential
Jewish families, those of the local magnate (gvir) Shloyme Belaser and Elye Margolis
of Worms, are forging a bond. All the participants are preoccupied with the
preparations: the synagogue’s beadles (father and son); the students of the Talmudic
school who intend to serve as the bridegroom’s entourage with song and dance
before him as knights would do20; an older eternal yeshive bokher who declares he
is the equivalent of the German troubadour Maynster Hildebrand.21 Jokingly the
students also announce that Yekl, the old beadle, will perform as prinz Bobo.22 The
local bard Leyb has composed new songs for the occasion and Jewish comedians
from Prague have also been hired to provide the entertainment. As is the custom
on such occasions, beggars also f lood the synagogue’s courtyard, as well as the
bookseller mentioned above along with a doctor of popular medicine offering
his remedies. Upon their arrival in the synagogue courtyard, the Prague troupe
immediately begins to perform, and all the men present fall for Roize, the group’s
leading lady. Fishl, an older member of the troupe, does not like the new material
and he remembers the good old days when he appeared in weddings attended by
aristocrats, singing for them even in galkhes, i.e. Latin.23 When the performance in
the courtyard is over, all the jesters go to the tavern. The tavern, of course, is run
by a Jewish landlord, but there is nothing Jewish about the place: it is filthy, the
guests are drinking heavily and gorging themselves, men frequenting women and
singing non-Jewish and ‘unholy’ songs. In the meantime, the women of the Jewish
quarter are gossiping about the prager shpil-vayb, and particularly about Leml the
parnes (community leader), who is in fact in the tavern attempting to seduce and
conquer Roize. Later the rich and mighty (from Regensburg, Worms, Frankfurt
am Main, and Vienna) gather in Belaser’s magnificent house. The head of the local
yeshiva and Rabbi Kalman, who lives in Istanbul, arrive as well. Pondering why
a person should live in Istanbul, a possible expulsion of Jews from Regensburg is
mentioned. In Istanbul the three religions apparently live in harmony with each
other. Then Berl the beadle announces the entrance of Reb Yoslman Rosheim, one
of the most important leaders of German Jewry.24 He is accompanied by the prince
elector (Kurfürst) Karl. They are able to stay only for a short time. Belaser orders a
special table for these high dignitaries and arranges a toytn-tants (Dance of Death) to
be performed, a dance which the prince elector loves to watch.25 Belaser offers him
an expensive wristwatch, which Leml has sold to him for an inf lated price. Roize
dances before the prince elector, hoping to win his favour and to be subsequently
invited to his palace. Fishl, the Prague clown who loves Roize, and Leyb the local
bard realize that they are in the wrong place: Roize will not stay with Fishl; Leyb
will not be able to present his own texts to the public. So, while Roize is virtually
f lying through the hall like a bird and performing ‘Death’, both men find a door
through which they escape in order to leave Regensburg for good.
130 Shlomo Berger
Opatoshu is preoccupied with the presentation of a long series of details and

contemplations creating a sphere and a mood which may ref lect sixteenth-century
Ashkenazi life. He raises the ‘big’ questions of Jewish life: the expulsion of the
Regensburg Jews, and mutatis mutandis the fragility of Jewish diasporic life in
general. He refers continuously to the antagonism between rich and poor. He seeks
to uncover the existence of a vibrant folk culture which plays a central role in
Ashkenazi life, claiming also that Ashkenazim regularly adopted features of non-
Jewish culture. He jokes about Sephardim;26 he refers to the difference between
bnei hes and bnei khes;27 he argues about the position of Yiddish, and makes use of
the Mayse fun Vorms (Tale of Worms) in a particular scene.28 What, then, is Max
Erik’s role in constructing Opatoshu’s world-view?
Max Erik examined Old Yiddish in two studies: the first, published in Warsaw
in 1926, Vegn altyidishn roman un novele, in which he initially proposed his Spielmann
theory and, accordingly, analysed relevant Old Yiddish texts.29 A full-f ledged
and accomplished description of the theory is offered in his 1928 magnum opus
Geshikhte fun der yidisher literatur fun di eltste tsaytn biz der haskole tkufe.30 Taking into
account impressive handwritten Yiddish literary works which probably were only
random examples of a by far larger corpus of manuscripts that have been lost or as
yet uncovered, Erik assumes that Yiddish literature was already f lourishing during
the two centuries which preceded the introduction of print technology. Moreover,
Erik implies that Yiddish novels, or actually romances, precede or parallel the
publication of many Yiddish translations, paraphrases, and poetry on biblical books
and stories.31 Susskind von Trimberg would have been an early example of a Jewish
poet for Erik, as an assimilated Jew (and not a baptized Jew) performing for a
Christian public.32 Erik presents further evidence from contemporary Yiddish and
Hebrew texts which attest to the popularity of non-Jewish romances in the Jewish
quarters of West European cities.
For Erik, following and transforming the German original model, the Ashkenazi
shpilman is the Jewish folk singer. The German shpilman initially emerged during the
ninth century. However, the shpilman’s art that was adopted by Ashkenazim belonged
to the heyday of the German shpilman between the twelfth and early fourteenth
centuries. In Germany, the shpilman character was often depicted travelling with
a group of friends.33 Erik vividly describes their activities, illuminating his own
understanding of both the German and the Ashkenazi shpilman:34
The Mimus (=mime actor) who led a bear that used to dance on two feet, the
comedians who fought one against the other, or one riding on the back of his
friend, the clowns who walked on a thin cord, the women who danced before
the audience, for there was also a great amount of women among the ‘wandering
men’. The shpilmen themselves danced, jumped, performed humorous and not
too moral skits. They made fun of themselves and others. At the same time,
the sphilman was engaged in music as well... and lastly the shpilman took on the
declamation of old popular stories about gods and heroes and the recitation of
some poems...35
Because they were living in groups, travelling from one location to another, the
German shpilman was accompanied by other vagabonds such as the Christian
student neglecting or abandoning his studies or the priest who had lost his faith
in god and church. The shpilman performed in the street, along roads or in the
market place. With the growing number of shpilman travelling groups over time,
the church and civil authorities increasingly criticized them and their way of life. At
least two groups of poetry writers competed with the shpilman: the clerics and the
knights. In order to survive, the shpilman plagiarized from both traditions. Indeed,
since he had easier access to audiences, the shpilman was in fact the guardian of the
national treasures, the binding force for all the poetic creativity of the German
nation. ‘But always’, concludes Erik, ‘a fearful, yet audacious, a boasting, and yet
empty, mendicant, beggar-like, hungry, and yet so happy, lively and optimistic soul
is peering out from all their creations’.36
The Ashkenazi shpilman operated within a different setting.37 As a consequence of
dire economic conditions during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Ashkenazim
developed their own class of beggars: Jews travelling throughout Europe in search
of some economic relief. Moreover, the Ashkenazi world knew two other groups
of wanderers: students of the Talmudic schools (yeshive bakhurim), and clowns,
musicians, and jesters (narn). Among them the shpilman was the more serious
epic folk singer. The Ashkenazi shpilman had less competition than his Christian
counterpart. Firstly, knights and chivalric poetry do not exist in Jewish society;
secondly, rabbis, in comparison with priests, do not write poetry; and thirdly,
Jewish history in exile is a story of tameness, and passive behaviour which does
not produce heroes and subsequently a national epos. Ashkenazim had stories and
legends, but these did not develop into any large-scale cycles that could result in
producing an epos. Still, in analogy to the priest, the Ashkenazi shpilman functioned
as an intermediary bringing a Christian form of poetry and the Bible together. He
introduced the Bible to the Jewish folksmentsh, the women, and the uneducated
householder. The shpilman did not only introduce the Christian melody to the
ghetto, but also reworked the biblical story, infusing it with chivalric conventions;
the sphilman’s biblical narrative abounded with dukes and barons acting in heroic
episodes. The best example of this kind of work is the Shmuel bukh.38 The Ashkenazi
shpilman was, in sum, both author and performer of high-quality literature (i.e. the
Bible) as well as of folk literature and folk culture.
The most conspicuous factor in Erik’s analysis is the proletarian tinge that
governs his theoretical exposé and historical description. Erik paints Ashkenazi
medieval realities in unmistakably secular shades. He is ready to claim that the
Ashkenazi shpilman reworked the Bible while using a Christian poetical framework
and, consequently, also furnished another new interpretation of the Holy Book.
As it were, the Bible was adapted to new realities that ref lected Ashkenazi life in
exile. This process necessarily emphasized the growing importance of the ‘common
Jew’. Therefore, it is the shpilman who produced art for the benefit of the common
Ashkenazi; and, of course, the art was produced in the common Ashkenazi’s
vernacular, in Yiddish. The Ashkenazi shpilman mediated between high and low
culture, between Torah written in Hebrew and the people’s diasporic culture,
which was conducted in Yiddish.
Discussing the highlights of the literary corpus that he ascribes to the shpilmans,
132 Shlomo Berger
Erik examines subject matters, use of literary conventions, and forms of expression.
But these discussions are actually of no real importance in analysing Opatoshu’s
novella. The novelist adopted Erik’s theory and general description of the shpilman’s
life and activity only. Furthermore, he included an anachronistic description, that
of the bookseller, and on the basis of his accumulated knowledge he created his
own fictive account of Ashkenazi troubadours, and his own version of Ashkenazi
life in the early modern period. Moreover, Opatoshu picks up Erik’s narrative
and locates it at a different level. While Erik is, of course, tackling literary
history, Opatoshu employs the Spielmann theory as a vantage point from which to
construct a thoroughly new historical setting. He is describing Ashkenazi life as
well as literary history. Both are relevant for understanding Jewish life in modern
times. The past can bring forth and actually tell us something valuable about
twentieth-century Jewish conditions and diasporic life. Moreover, Opatoshu the
novelist claimed that:
where the historian stops, where his work is done, therein begins the artist’s
work. The genuine artist possesses the power to unearth the truths that will
remain a permanent secret for the historian. A story, a Hassidic tale by Peretz
includes a greater measure of truth and the reader will believe him more than
a description of the Hassidic period by Graetz and Dubnov [...]39
Indeed, Opatoshu confirms that he has read both inf luential historians, but they
did not and could not tell the full story or, indeed, a fully true story. This is the
task of the novelist; this is the novelist’s privilege. While Erik is out to explain the
emergence of high-quality Yiddish secular literature in the Middle Ages, Opatoshu
is preoccupied with an artistic mission to unfold a story that cannot be told by any
historian. Opatoshu can tell the ‘true’ story about the subversive undercurrents that
inf luenced Ashkenazi society which defies a historian’s talents and capabilities.
In his creation of an alternative history, Opatoshu presents what later post-
modern scholars insist on. They doubt the historians’ efforts to produce meaningful
narratives of reality.40 While Opatoshu speaks of a process in which an author begins
his narrative at the point where the historian ends, the post-modern critic claims
that history and literature run parallel to each other and are, in fact, interwoven.41
A history book is also literature and its literary structures and qualities serve as
a means of delivery of a historical tale.42 Therefore, fiction may come as close
to a historical truth as a history book, and sometimes even closer. The modern,
positivist historian may go further and argue that Opatoshu’s narrative contradicts
the facts: Ashkenazi society of the sixteenth century was different, and describing
the people as proletarian and non-observant and being heavily inf luenced by non-
Jewish culture is extreme at best or downright wrong.43 Of course, contrary to
Erik, Opatoshu is entitled to his poetic licence and as a novelist he is not to be
judged according to historical methodology.
Still, is it also possible that Opatoshu described Regensburg Jews of the sixteenth
century in line with his understanding of Jewish life in Eastern Europe before
the Second World War? It can be claimed that because Opatoshu was originally
a Polish Jew, East European realities also underlined his descriptions of Jewish
Ashkenazi life in other corners of the European continent. In In Poylishe velder (In
Polish Woods) he, for instance, continuously points up the connections between
Jews and non-Jews and, consequently, he comes up with a parallel description in
A tog in Regensburg. For Opatoshu, Jewish history is a diasporic affair. He aims to
underscore the consequences of the diasporic nature of Jewish existence, as well as
the unavoidable contacts with the non-Jewish world ‘outside’.
Notes to Chapter 9
1. Quintilianus, Institutio Oratoria, X.1.31.
2. In his article ‘Der veg fun mayn shafn’, Di goldene keyt, 20 (1954), p. 27, Opatoshu explains that
in his historical novels he is providing an evaluation that confronts Heinrich Graetz’s gloomy
and lachrymose approach to Jewish history.
3. Cf. Sol Liptzin’s biographical sketch of Opatoshu as found in Jewish Virtual Library <http://www.
jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/judaica/ejud_0002_0015_0_15117.html> [accessed 4 February
2013].
4. The history of the Yiddish language is usually divided into three periods: Old (1000–1500),
Middle (1500–1750), and Modern Yiddish (1750– ): see Max Weinreich, Geshikhte fun der yidisher
shprakh (New York: YIVO 1973), ii, 383–97 = History of the Yiddish Language (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 2010), ii, 719–33; ‘Old Yiddish Literature’ may refer to Yiddish texts up to
the middle of the eighteenth century, but here texts written up to the sixteenth century and
paralleling the early period of Yiddish language will be discussed: see Chone Shmeruk, Prokim
fun der yidisher literatur-geshikhte (Tel-Aviv: Peretz farlag, 1987), pp. 11–49.
5. On Erik, see Leksikon fun der nayer yidisher literatur (New York: Marstin Press, 1956), vii,
cols. 37–41; see also the biographical sketch of Max Erik by Abraham Novershtern in YIVO
Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), i, 476–77.
6. For research on Old Yiddish in Eastern Europe between 1918 and 1939, see Barry Trachtenberg,
‘Inscribing the Yiddish Past: Inter-War Explorations of Old Yiddish Texts’ in Yiddish and the
Left, ed. by Gennady Estraikh and Mikhail Krutikov (Oxford: Legenda, 2001), pp. 208–25.
7. On Opatoshu, see Borekh Rivkin, Yoysef Opatoshus gang (Toronto: Gershon Pomerantz, 1949);
Yud Freilikh, Yoysef Opatoshus shafung-veg (Toronto: Pomer Publishing and Printing 1951), esp.
pp. 94–97 dealing with Opatoshu’s engagement within history and historical novels. Freilikh’s
narrative is extremely romantic in tone and lacks precise details; Sol Liptzin, A History of Yiddish
literature (New York: J. David Publishing House, 1985), pp. 166–72.
8. See Germania Judaica (1987), iii, 1178–1230; Siegfried Wittmer, Jüdisches Leben in Regensburg: Vom
frühen Mittelalter bis 1519 (Regensburg: Universitätsverlag Regensburg, 2001); Silvia Codreanu-
Windauer, ‘Regensburg: The Archaeology of the Medieval Jewish Quarter’, in The Jews of
Europe in the Middle Ages (Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries), ed. by Christoph Cluse (Turnhout:
Brepols, 2004), pp. 391–403.
9. Max Erik, Geshikhte fun der yidisher literature fun di eltste tsaytn biz der haskole tkufe (Warsaw:
Kultur-Lige, 1928), pp. 28–29.
10. Yoysef Opatoshu, A tog in Regensburg (New York: Malino), p. 40.
11. This first known Yiddish printed text is included in an otherwise Hebrew Passover Hagadah.
It is a translation of the Hebrew piyyut Adir hu, titled in Yiddish Almekhtiger Got: see Moritz
Steinschneider, Catalogus librorum Hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (Berlin: D. Friedlaender,
1852–60), no. 2672; on the importance of the text, see Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 50–52, 87–90.
12. On the connection Abramowitz-Mendele, see Dan Miron, A Traveler Disguised: The Rise of
Modern Yiddish Fiction in the Nineteenth Century, 2nd edn. (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press,
1993) pp. 16–17, 92–94, 148–68; on booksellers in nineteenth-century Eastern Europe, see Hagit
Cohen, At the Booksellers’ Shop: the Jewish Book Trade in Eastern Europe at the End of the Nineteenth
Century (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2006), esp. pp. 23–25.
13. Indeed, Freilikh, Yoysef Opatoshu, p. 96, claims that the novelist wishes to offer the modern
reading public a painting of Jewish life in the past; the novella is better understood as a painting
rather than a text composed of words. Thus, we can meet Löwe of Regensburg, author of the
134 Shlomo Berger
Shmuel bukh (see also below), but Freilikh immediately adds that ‘whether he is or is not the
author of the book is of no importance. We should not look here for historical authenticity’
(ibid.).
14. On Hasidei Ashkenaz and rabbi Yehudah, see Joseph Dan, Sifrut ha-Musar veha-Drush ( Jerusalem:
Keter, 1975), pp. 121–45; on rabbi Yehudah in Yiddish, see Jacob Meitlis, ‘Der Shvokhim-tsikl
fun R’ Shmuel un R’ Juda hakhosid’, Di goldene keyt, 23 (1955), 218–34.
15. In fact, Opatoshu writes in ‘Der veg fun mayn shafn’, p. 18, that ‘while sitting in New York I
have written about Regensburg. I have written about a day in Jewish Regensburg where the
anonymous artist has composed [sic!] his Shmuel bukh, the Yiddish heroic epos’. Opatoshu is,
of course, mistaken; on the Shmuel bukh’s manuscript tradition, see Max Weinreich, Bilder fun
der yidisher literatur-geshikhte (Vilnius: Tomor, 1928), pp. 68–111, and on the copyist, see esp. pp.
68–69; Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 114–16, 192–98.
16. Chava Turniansky, ‘Li-meqorotav shel “Der sotn in Goray” le-Yitzhak Bashevis Singer’, in
Me-Vilna li-Yerushalayyim: mehqarim be-toldotehem ube-tarbutam shel yehudei mizrah eropah mugashim
leprofesor Shmuel Verses, ed. by David Asaf and others ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2002), pp.
467–84.
17. Yehudit Levin, ‘Meqorot historyyim ve-sifrutyyim bi-yetzirato shel Meir Wiener Kolev
Ashkenazi’ (MA thesis, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem 2008); Mikhail Krutikov, From
Kabbalah to Class Struggle: Expressionism, Marxism and Yiddish Literature in the Life and Work of Meir
Wiener (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011), pp. 295–306.
18. Chone Shmeruk, ‘“Midresh Itsik” u-ba’ayat mesorotav ha-sifrutiyot’, in Manger, I., Midresh Itsik,
ed. by Chone Shmeruk ( Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, 1984), pp. 49*–66*.
19. Chava Turniansky, ‘Sutskever un altyidish’, in Yikhes fun lid/Yihuso shel shir: Lekoved Avrom
Sutskever, ed. by Dov Sadan and others (Tel-Aviv: Va’ad ha-Yovel, 1983), pp. 62–88.
20. This is a clear hint at the inf luence of Christian culture on the Ashkenazi one, as suggested by
Erik and Opatoshu. But see also Max Weinreich, ‘The Reality of Jewishness Versus the Ghetto
Myth: The Sociolinguistic Roots of Yiddish’, in To Honor Roman Jacobson: Essays on the Occasion
of His Seventieth Birthday (The Hague; Mouton 1967), iii, 2199–211, where he advocates the
slogan: ‘living among Christians and being insular to Christianity’, which implies that each
possible import of a Christian cultural asset was reshaped in order to fit it into Jewish culture
and Ashkenazi requirements. Subsequently, Weinreich is also defining Yiddish as a lehavdil loshn
or ‘language of difference’.
21. Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 42–44.
22. Prinz Bobo refers to Elye Bokher’s Yiddish rendition of the Italian chivalric rhymed romance
Buovo d’Antona: Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 141–56.
23. Galkhes is the Yiddish noun for ‘Latin’ and, subsequently, European languages. Stemming from
the Hebrew verb ‘to shave’, a head-shaven priest is called in Yiddish galekh and his language
(mutatis mutandis the language of the church) galkhes. By studying in the kheyder the Hebrew
alphabet only, Ashkenazim could avoid any contact with the language(s) of the rival religion.
Here Opatoshu is claiming that Jews actually knew galkhes and even performed in Latin (or
another European language) before a Christian audience.
24. On Yosl’s biography and activity and the expulsion of Regensburg Jews in Yosl’s writings, see
Yosef of Rosheim: qtavim historyyim, ed. by Chava Fraenkel-Goldschmidt ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press
1996), pp. 9–56, 117–22.
25. An uninformative discussion of the scene is found in David Katz, ‘Der motiv fun ‘toytn-tants’
in der traditsye fun literatur bay yidn’ (PhD thesis, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan, 1993),
pp. 180–85.
26. The head of the Regensburg yeshiva is a Sephardic rabbi. He is accused of speaking Yiddish like
a gentile. He claims to be Nachmanides’ heir. But, when lecturing, it is not clear whether he
is speaking about Aristotle or Moses’ Torah. Generally, the Sephardim hate the Ashkenazim,
hate Yiddish, and they are haughty. Fishl, the Prague jester, proudly concludes: ‘“our” Hasidei
Ashkenaz are greater than all the Sephardi geniuses’ (Opatoshu, A tog in Regensburg, pp. 45–46).
27. Employing a he or a khes (=Ashkenazim that can pronounce a khes or not) in their speech is a
feature of the Yiddish language during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and is historically
important for the development of the Ashkenazi vernacular. Bnei hes usually denote Ashkenazim
of the Rhine (or western Ashkenazim) and bnei khes Jews living in Austria (or eastern
Ashkenazim): see Max Weinreich, ‘Bnei hes un bnei khes in Ashkenaz: di problem un vos ze
lozt undz hern’, YIVO Bleter, 41 (1957), 101–23; Dovid Katz, ‘East and West, khes and shin and
the Origin of Yiddish’, in Keminhag Ashkenaz uPolin: Sefer Yovel le-Chone Shmeruk, ed. by Israel
Bartal and others ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1993), pp. 9*–37*.
28. Pp. 60–62: an old woman originally from Worms tells the story about the Queen of Sheba
who promises wealth to a poverty-stricken married Ashkenazi in exchange for a secret affair if
he agrees to. She warns him that if their affair is revealed to others he will die, which indeed
happened. This episode is based on the Mayse fun Vorms, which tells the story of a young man
marrying by mistake a she-devil and the way he and his wife get rid themselves of the she-devil,
living happily ever after. See Sara Zfatman, Nisuei adam ve-shedah ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press 1988)
including versions of the story, one of which is about the queen of Sheba (pp. 128–30); see also
Jeremy A. Dauber, In the Demon’s Bedroom: Yiddish Literature and the Early Modern (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 2010), pp. 140–71. Opatoshu chooses a woman from Worms to lend the
story more authenticity, because it apparently happened in this city.
29. In fact, Elazar Shulman, Safa yehudit-ashkenazit ve-sifruta (Riga: Levin 1914), pp. viii–ix,
mentions the existence of ‘travelling musician troupes, clowns and jesters who moved from one
location to another, and wherever a feast was celebrated they were present’. Although Shulman
does not employ the term ‘shpilman’ and does not actually formulate any theory, Max Weinreich,
in his Bilder fun der yidisher literatur-geshikhte, p. 352, attributes the theory to him.
30. I refer to the edition of the Altveltlekhen yidishn kultur-kongres (New York 1979). Although it
is of no importance to the study of Opatoshu’s reading and employment of Erik’s books, it is
nevertheless significant to recognize that Erik’s shpilman theory is nowadays usually rejected. The
most fundamental criticism of Erik’s theory was formulated by Chone Shmeruk, ‘Tsi ken der
kembridger ksav-yad shtitsn di shpilman teorye in der yidisher literatur?’, Di goldene keyt, 100
(1979), 251–71 = Prokim, pp. 97–120.
31. In disagreement with Erik, see Shmeruk, Prokim, pp. 157–210.
32. Richard Straus, ‘Was Süsskind of Trimberg a Jew? An Inquiry into 13th Century Cultural
History’, Jewish Social Studies, 10 (1948), pp. 19–30; Dietrich Gerhardt, Süsskind von Trimberg:
Berichtigungen zu einer Erinnerung (Berne and New York: Peter Lang 1997); Luis S. Krausz,
‘Susskind of Trimberg: An Early Paradigm of the German-Jewish Question’, Naharaim, 5 (2011),
17–35.
33. Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 69–73.
34. Erik, Vegn altyidishn roman, p. 20.
35. Freilikh, Yoysef Opatoshu, p. 96, declares that Opatoshu ‘visited Yiddishland, the Yiddish
( Jewish?) bohemian and the shpilman who began to provide the Yiddish language with its form
and content’. Erik’s description fits perfectly with Freilikh’s contention.
36. Ibid., p. 22.
37. Erik, Geshikhte, pp. 73–75.
38. See above n. 17.
39. Opatoshu, ‘Der veg fun mayn shafn’, p. 29; see also his general appreciation of history and
historical novels, pp. 27–29.
40. On the post-modern stance towards history, see Hayden White, ‘Figuring the Nature of Time
Deceased: Literary Theory and Historical Writing’, in The Future of literary Theory, ed. by Ralph
Cohen (New York: Routledge 1989), pp. 19–43; see also Wallace Martin, Recent Theories of
Narrative (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987); Hayden White, ‘The Question of Narrative
in Contemporary Historical Theory’, in Hayden White, The Contents of the Form: Narrative
Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), pp.
26–57; Linda Orr, ‘The Revenge of Literature: A History of History’, New Literary History, 18
(1984), 1–22.
41. Indeed, the movement of New Historicism in literary studies is out to study literary works as an
‘occurrence’ that can uncover deep underlying structures of the historical society in which they
were written: see The New Historicism Reader, ed. by Harold Veeser (London and New York:
Routledge, 1994).
42. Anatole France has already presented the idea that history is a tricky profession that resembles
136 Shlomo Berger
art. In his novel Le crime de Sylvestre Bonnard (1st edn: 1881, here referring to the 1926 edition by
Calmann-Levy, Editeurs), pp. 308–09, he writes that a historian decides whether something is
historically important following his whim, taste, beliefs, and opinions, precisely as artists do.
43. See Weinreich, ‘The Reality of Jewishness’.
C h a p t e r 10
v
The Flesh and the Spirit:

Opatoshu’s novel Di tentserin (The Dancer)
Avraham Novershtern
On Both Sides of the Atlantic

America, the Soviet Union, Poland: the printing history of Opatoshu’s novel Di
tentserin provides an illuminating example of both the expansion of Yiddish cultural
activity across oceans and seas in the 1920s and the growing significance of the
Yiddish literary centre in America during this decade. The work was first printed
as a serialized novel in the New York daily Der tog (1926) and, following this,
book editions were published in the Soviet Union (1929) and Polish Vilna (1930).
Opatoshu’s novel, assigned two different titles in its various garbs — Di tentserin and
Arum Grend-strit — was designed to reach the widest possible audience, including
readers from a diverse range of cultural and social backgrounds. Given this diversity,
it was unlikely that the inf luential voices of the Yiddish literary world, guided by
a variety of cultural ideologies and preferences, would be able to reach any kind of
agreement on the value of the novel. And this is indeed what happened.
Its publication in book form was greeted by critical reviews, as one would expect,
but the fact that the text was first printed in a daily newspaper is a central element
in any discussion of the novel, especially since it serves to illustrate the complex
relations between Yiddish literature and the press. Indeed, a comprehensive analysis
of this convoluted and long-term relationship may well conclude that Di tentserin
was a rather unusual occurrence. Most of the novels by well-known and accepted
authors of Yiddish literature — from Sholem Asch and I. J. Singer to Isaac Bashevis
Singer and Chaim Grade — were printed in a newspaper in weekly or twice-
weekly instalments. In many such cases the text developed during the course of
its publication. Likewise, writers were often forced to function under aggressive
time constraints, producing section after section according to a pre-determined
schedule. Di tentserin, however, does not fit these criteria. It was printed daily (from
13 February to 18 May 1926) in Der tog, to which Opatoshu had contributed on a
regular basis for many years, and a reading of the novel strengthens the assumption
that the text as a whole was ready before its printing began. A sample analysis of the
newspaper version also reveals that Opatoshu did not make any significant changes
to the text before its later publication in book form (aside from the addition of
three chapters at the end of the first section). Since this text was apparently ready
138 Avraham Novershtern
in full before the printing in instalments began, to what extent can Di tentserin be
treated as a newspaper novel, and is this label in any way relevant to understanding
its character?
A partial answer to this question may be found in a letter written before the start
of the novel’s publication that outlines the understanding between the newspaper
editorship and the author regarding the printing of the text. The letter is signed
by one of the editors of Der tog, S. Dingol, acting on behalf of the owners of the
newspaper:
Mr. Schapiro iz ayngegangen af ayer forshlog, un ir kent glaykh tsutretn tsu
shraybn ayer roman, velkher darf zayn a realistisher roman fun yidishn lebn in
Nyu-York, azoy vi mir hobn geredt, literarish un tsu der zelber tsayt shtark in
inhalt mit dramatishe situatsyes. Der roman zol umgefer doyern tsvishn dray
un fir monatn.
[Mr Schapiro agreed to your proposal and you will be able to begin right
away to write your novel, which must be a realistic novel about Jewish life in
New York, as we talked about, literary and at the same time strong in terms
of content with dramatic situations. The novel should last between three and
four months.]1
These short lines shed light upon the inherent complexities of the long-term
relationship between American Yiddish prose and the New York Yiddish daily
press. In the heyday of the main Yiddish newspapers, Forverts and Der tog, a tradition
was established that endured for decades — the simultaneous publication of two
different kinds of serialized novels, a ‘canonical’ or ‘literary’ novel on the one hand,
and pulp fiction, a trashy or sensational ‘shund’ novel on the other. The wealth and
scope of Forverts enabled the paper to practise this custom liberally, publishing side
by side not one trashy novel but two, together with a serialized novel or a series of
loosely linked episodes by one of the well-known canonical writers — Asch, I. J.
Singer, Z. Shneour, or Isaac Bashevis Singer. Der tog was of more limited means
and was not always able to print a literary novel, although pulp fiction was always
to be found in its pages. When Der tog did not offer its readers a literary novel it
would provide them with an alternative: literary pieces, short stories, or feuilletons
by well-known writers. Opatoshu played a central role in this endeavour: each year
he would publish a considerable number of sketches and stories in the paper, only
some of which were later included in his books.
The terms of the letter quoted above clarify the expectations of daily newspaper
editors regarding a ‘literary novel’: it should be primarily realistic and its ‘literary’
character ought not to pose an obstacle to the dramatic tension that should heighten
with each and every instalment. The terms of this letter spell out exactly why the
doors of the daily Yiddish newspaper were closed to the spirit of literary innovation
and experimentation characteristic of modernist prose; any writer seeking to
publish his work in an American Yiddish daily was first and foremost required to
conform to this demand for realism, and most authors had no choice but to adhere
to this norm.
Members of the group Di Yunge, with which Opatoshu was associated from
the publication of his first story in 1910, had always been aware of the newspaper
The Flesh and the Spirit 139
editors’ requirements regarding literary prose. At the beginning of their careers

these writers were convinced that they should not capitulate to the editors’
demands; precisely for this reason they sought to establish independent literary
platforms. Yet over the years opposition to contributing to the newspapers slowly
diminished. Opatoshu was among the first writers to change their view on the
matter, becoming a regular contributor to Der tog from its inception in 1914 until
his death.2 This may be explained (or excused) by his belief that Der tog, which
promised to be ‘the newspaper of the Jewish intelligentsia’, would maintain a higher
intellectual level than its counterparts,3 although this undertaking did not affect the
nature of the canonical literary works printed therein in any significant manner.
This background is vital to understanding the character of Di tentserin, Opatoshu’s
most significant novel concerning Jewish life in America — a serialized newspaper
novel written by a canonical author.4
Opatoshu intended Di tentserin to be comprehensive in its scope and ambitious
thematically. He did not seek to portray some remote corner of Jewish life or
marginal characters, as interesting as they may be. Rather this novel was meant to
paint a captivating panoramic portrait and as such its characters, at least the central
ones, needed to be unmistakable literary or sociological ‘types’. Since the text was
directed at a readership heterogeneous in its literary taste and holding a diverse
range of beliefs and ideologies, it should not be a roman à thèse in the narrow sense of
the term. Yet in spite of this the novel was expected to make a significant statement
about life and society. A number of famous Yiddish novels fit these criteria:
Asch’s Dray shtet (Three Cities) and East River, I. J. Singer’s Di brider Ashkenazi
(The Brothers Ashkenazi) and Di mishpokhe Karnovski (Family Karnovski), and
Isaac Bashevis Singer’s Di familye Mushkat (Family Moskat) are among the most
outstanding examples. Di tentserin belongs to this category, together with Opatoshu’s
earlier and more famous novel In poylishe velder (In Polish woods, 1921), although Di
tentserin was significantly less successful than its predecessor.
The very nature of Yiddish culture in America, which was at once both a mass
and an immigrant culture, prescribed a set course for the publication of a novel
such as Di tentserin. Tens of thousands of people read the novel as it was printed in
instalments in the newspaper, after which there was little chance that it would be
published in book form in America, unless this was initiated and at least partially
financed by the writer himself. Even at the height of Yiddish cultural activity in
America, when the newspapers achieved a combined distribution of hundreds of
thousands of copies, there were few serious publishers able to make a claim to
regular activity, and all attempts at establishing a respectable Yiddish publishing
house failed, despite the great dedication of those involved. A Yiddish author in
America, however famous he may have been, was thus forced to turn to Eastern
Europe, primarily Poland, in order to publish his works in book form, whether this
was at his own initiative or in response to that of a local publisher.
Opatoshu’s writings followed this course. While his first books appeared in New
York during the short-lived boom in the printing of Yiddish belles-lettres during
and shortly after the First World War, from the 1920s until the Holocaust most
of his works were published in Poland, primarily in the form of a multi-volume
edition of his Gezamlte verk (Collected Works) printed between 1928 and 1939 by
the most prestigious publishing house of the generation, B. Kletskin in Vilna. The
Vilna edition of Di tentserin, published in 1930, carries two parallel titles, Di tentserin
(Arum Grend-strit); Roman; A shtik yidish lebn in di yorn 1910–1912 (The Dancer
[Around Grand Street]; Novel; A slice of Jewish life in the years 1910–1912), and
was part of this edition. Thus in both its newspaper and book forms the novel was
assigned subtitles emphasizing that it focuses on ‘life’.
Yet in the case of this novel a stopover was added to the journey from New York
to Vilna: the first book edition appeared in the Soviet Union in 1929, a year before
its Polish counterpart. This was one of the results of Opatoshu’s visit to that country
in the previous year,5 a sign of the author’s (somewhat hesitant) identification with
the regime. A very prominent agent acted on his behalf in this endeavour with
stubborn diligence: his friend Peretz Markish, at the time a fresh immigrant to
the Soviet Union.6 The novel was published in Kharkov, then the capital of the
Ukraine and home to state publishing houses that printed many Yiddish books,
even though the city was by no means a centre of Jewish life or Yiddish literature.
We can only guess that the erotic connotations of a title such as Di tentserin deterred
puritan Soviet publishers, and as a result this was replaced with the considerably
more neutral Arum Grend-strit. Although it is difficult to imagine that many Yiddish
readers in the Soviet Union could understand the concrete meaning of this title,
perhaps it was intended to provide the air of a distant, even exotic, world.
One episode in this publication history is of particular interest: a short
introduction written by Shakhne Epshteyn was included in the Soviet edition with
the aim of making the novel palatable to the ‘higher ranks’, the Soviet Yiddish
critics and (perhaps) also the censorship. This was deemed necessary since significant
sections of the text, including its gallery of characters, appeared to challenge the
official communist line. The choice of this writer was not fortuitous: Epshteyn
was active in the Yiddish cultural and political scene on both sides of the ocean.
He had spent a number of years in America, playing central roles in the American
communist movement and its Yiddish publications, before returning to the Soviet
Union in 1929, a short time before the appearance of Opatoshu’s novel. Epstheyn’s
familiarity with American life thus made him a natural candidate to endorse this
work for Soviet readers. Yet at the same time, Epstheyn himself, returning to the
Soviet Union after what could be considered an American ‘exile’, needed to prove
beyond all doubt his loyalty to and familiarity with the official communist line.
His comments in the short foreword are so ‘belligerent’ that one is prompted to ask
why, if this is the case, the novel was published in the Soviet Union at all.7
Er hot zikh ayngeshlosn, Opatoshu, in farkishefndikn krayz fun an untergeyendik
veltl, an opgeshlosn un opgezundert fun arumikn shturmishn lebn, mit ale
zayne komplitsirte protsesn, un Amerike hot zikh farvandlt in a meshunediker
farzeenish, gezen inem likht fun di Poylishe velder. (5)
[Opatoshu enclosed himself in the bewitched circle of a small, narrow, sinking
world, a world locked out of and isolated from the tumultuous life around it,
with all its complicated processes, and America has been transformed into a
strange monster, portrayed through the prism of Poylishe velder.]
Opatoshu’s novel indeed aroused markedly varied reactions. These were not
necessarily the result of an ideological bias but always contained some kind of
hidden agenda. Critics as disparate in status and cultural world as Epshteyn and
Abraham Cahan, the editor of Forverts, dismissed the work: between the lines of
his bluntly negative review Cahan taunted the author who contributed regularly
to a competing daily paper.8 Yet at the same time Opatoshu’s status, as well as his
ideological and literary leanings, almost certainly inf luenced those who wrote in
praise of the novel.
The timing of its publication in book form also played an important part in
the work’s reception. In the same year as it appeared in the Soviet Union (1929)
a bitter divide split the Yiddish world in New York. This was a result of the
resolute attitude adopted by the Communist movement towards the Arab riots of
1929, as expressed in its New York Yiddish mouthpiece Morgn-frayhayt, a dramatic
episode that cannot be discussed in more detail here. If Opatoshu’s novel had been
scheduled to be published even one year later there is little doubt that the Soviet
edition would not have been printed at all, since the author was by then no longer
regarded as a supporter of the Soviet regime. It is highly significant that the author’s
response to Epshteyn’s assessment of the novel, as well as that of H. Leivick, at the
time considered the most prominent Yiddish literary presence and a close friend
of Opatoshu, were both published in the weekly Vokh,9 a short-lived publication
founded with the explicit aim of protesting against the Communist movement’s
position on Jewish concerns in general and the Arab riots in Palestine in particular.
The critical reception of Opatoshu’s novel thus presents a reverse picture of its
printing history. Whilst the very fact of its publication in the United States, Poland,
and the Soviet Union reveals a common ground shared by these three centres
of Yiddish culture, the disagreements provoked by the novel point to a schism
between Yiddish literature in the Soviet Union and its other centres, a schism that
became very evident after 1929.
Although Epshteyn’s assessment of Di tentserin should clearly not be accepted at
face value, his unreservedly negative comments contain a fundamental truth: in this
novel Opatoshu indeed attempted to weave threads of cultural continuity between
Jewish Eastern Europe and New York. At the time, In poylishe velder was Opatoshu’s
most well-known and accepted work and thus it is not surprising that critics refer to
it repeatedly in their reviews of the new novel. Although he published a sequel to
In poylishe velder in the 1920s, entitled 1863, and was contemplating a third volume
in the intended trilogy, the scope of Di tentserin made it Opatoshu’s most ambitious
work after In poylishe velder. In his review of the novel Sh. Niger proclaimed that
es iz nisht der raykhster, ober zikher der rayfster fun ale romanen, vos Y. Opatoshu hot biz
itst geshribn, ‘this is not his richest novel, but it is certainly the most mature among
Opatoshu’s novels to date’.10 Thus an analysis of Di tentserin alongside In poylishe
velder can indeed prove highly instructive: what are the meeting points and the
differences between these two novels written by the same author in America less
than a decade apart — one concerning Jewish Poland in the nineteenth century
and the other Jewish New York at the beginning of the twentieth century? To
what extent did Opatoshu envision the successful relocation of the world of Jewish
Poland to New York?
Di tentserin and the American Yiddish Urban Novel

The lines that Epshteyn drew connecting Di tentserin and In poylishe velder provided
him with the opportunity to articulate his unequivocally negative verdict regarding
the ideological underpinnings of Opatoshu’s American novel. However, this was
preceded by a claim more fundamental from the Marxist perspective and more
expected in light of the conventions of Yiddish literature. Among the variety of
characters populating this novel set in New York at the beginning of the twentieth
century one central type is missing: where are the workers?
Keyn simen nito fun shvits-varshtatn, fun roykhike fabrikn, fun tayvlsh
loyfndike banen unter der erd un ibern dakh, vos shlingen ayn baginen un
varfn aroys in ovnt milyonen shklafn; keyn ondayt afile nit af dem broyzikn
kamf, ful mit mesires-nefesh, far a nay lebn, grod arum Grend-strit in di yidishe
kvartaln. (5)
[There is no sign of sweatshops, smoking factories, of the devilish trains that
run under the ground and over the rooftops, which at dawn swallow millions
of workers and spit them out in the evening; there is not even a hint of the
bubbling fight, full of self-sacrifice, for a new life, especially around Grand
Street in the Jewish neighbourhoods.]
Although left-wing critics — socialists and communists — often condemned
Yiddish prose works in this manner, in the case of Opatoshu’s panoramic novel the
claim could be raised even more sharply. Opatoshu himself was no doubt aware
of the possible accusations that could be made against him in this regard, as is
evidenced by the fact that he included the battle of labour activists into the fabric
of the novel, expanding the relevant chapters in the book edition. Yet the secondary
status of these characters was not likely to satisfy the demands of an aggressive critic
such as Epshteyn. Why was so little significance attributed to workers in a novel
that includes a successful capitalist; an immigrant fallen upon hard times; a man cast
in the unwanted role of wonderworker and Hasidic leader; his son, searching for his
way in the world of ideas; a street dancer of dubious behaviour and an additional
assortment of downtrodden characters? Who should be the central character in
this rich and dazzling gallery? The novel does not offer any clear-cut clues to help
answer this question: indeed, no single hero takes centre stage.
Opatoshu’s earlier novel, In poylishe velder, leaves no doubt in this regard. It
focuses upon Mordkhe, beginning even prior to his birth with a brief description of
the previous generations of his family. The novel then follows Mordkhe through his
first love to the spiritual searches that toss him between faith and heresy, between
the court of the Hasidic rabbi of Kotsk and the world of Jewish and Polish spiritual
leaders and men of action in the years leading up to the 1863 revolt. Di tentserin
contains no single character of such stature, almost as though the author refused to
tip the scales and decide on whom the spotlight should be directed in his panoramic
novel. A refusal of this kind bespeaks a crucial artistic decision, and one possible
reason for this lack of focus may have been the initial publication of the work in
a daily newspaper: the author sought to target the differing ideological leanings
of a variety of readers without making an unequivocal commitment to any one
character. Opatoshu himself testifies to this in a letter to Leivick written whilst

working on the novel:
Ikh shrayb a nayem roman, fun nyu-yorker lebn. Shoyn ongeshribn iber
hundert gedrukte zaytn. Kh’vel im min-hastam opdrukn in ‘Tog’. Kh’nem
arum nisht-barirte shikhtn un in Nyu-York iz dokh faran a yam. Men hot nokh
gornisht oysgenitst. S’iz nokh alts ‘karke-bsule’ — nem un fartseykhn. Un ikh
mol yordim, bizneslayt, arbeter, vodevil-aktrises, khsidim, shnorers, studentn,
sfardishe yidn, galitsyaner, ungerishe. Un dos alts iz nisht mer vi a shpay. In
der fryerdiker Rusland hot Mendele, Peretz, Sholem Aleykhem fartseykhnt
dem yidishn zhaner, hot an emeser talant gemuzt geyn in der tif, anshtot in der
breyt. Af der amerikaner ‘breyt’ hot zikh nokh keyner nisht farmostn.11
[I am writing a new novel about life in New York. I have already written more
than 100 printed pages. It seems I will print it in ‘Tog’. I am including in it layers
that have not yet been touched upon, and in New York there exists a veritable
sea of these. Its potential has not yet been fully exploited. Everything is still
‘virgin land’ — grab it and take note. And I describe people fallen upon bad
times, businessmen, workers, vaudeville actresses, Hasidim, beggars, students,
Sephardic Jews, Galician and Hungarian Jews, and all this is only a drop in the
sea. Years ago in Russia Mendele, Peretz, and Sholem Aleichem recorded the
Jewish genre, and great talent was necessary to go into depth rather than width.
As yet no one has dealt with the American ‘expanse’.]
This letter is one of the most illuminating documents that we possess for
understanding the poetics of the Yiddish panoramic novel, which in most cases
was printed in the press. The author first of all lists the characters to appear in the
text but is completely silent on the matter of plot: where does he intend to lead
this wide and varied gallery of characters? On this he says nothing. The manner in
which the anonymous characters are identified (not one of them is given a name)
also provides clear evidence of the author’s basic approach: among all the criteria
by which he could distinguish them he chooses to do so according to status or
profession. It is interesting that the first category he mentions is that of people fallen
upon hard times: this shows the extent to which Opatoshu’s Yiddish novel about
Jewish life in America follows a course totally at odds with that outlined in works
such as Abraham Cahan’s English novel The Rise of David Levinsky (1917), Asch’s
novels, or Y. Y. Shvartz’s poem ‘Kentucky’ published in the same year as Opatoshu
was working on this novel. In his view a novel about American Jewish life should
focus upon the ‘downfall’ and not the ‘rise’, portraying disintegration rather than
growth. On the basis of Opatoshu’s letter it is impossible to conclude whether he
associated these processes of disintegration with the specific features of Jewish life in
America or believed that they should constitute the common ground of the Yiddish
realistic novel in general. Nevertheless, a list of characters headed by the ones in
difficult straits is hardly likely to suggest an optimistic assessment of Jewish life in
America.
The order of this inventory is no less important than its content: the fact that
Hasidim appear after vaudeville actresses and before beggars, who are mentioned
ahead of students, indicates that the spiritual life of Jews in America does not lie
at the heart of the novel. Indeed, the role of Hasidim in this gallery of characters
is rather dubious: squeezed between ‘vaudeville actresses’ and ‘beggars’, it appears

that they are almost considered demi-monde. Yet if characters representing the old
Jewish world appear in the novel, those symbolizing the new world, the students,
could not be omitted, with beggars dividing the two groups. No less interesting
are ethnic labels: in the eyes of a Yiddish writer such as Opatoshu originating
from innermost Jewish Poland, immigration to America is clearly comprised of a
‘core group’, the identity of which is obvious, and ‘margins’ that merit an explicit
reference. The author does not refer to Jews from central Poland, Lithuania, and
Ukraine amongst the masses of immigrants, because he considers them its most
obvious component. Rather those mentioned are the immigrants from Galicia
— whom the Yiddish-speaking public indeed categorized in certain periods as
a separate class, assigning them specific, mainly negative, identifying features —
followed by Hungarian Jews. This particular part of the list of anticipated characters
was not realized in the final outcome. We can only guess that the writer did not
find a way to shape a common ground between Yiddish-speaking people on the
one hand and Sephardic Jews on the other, and that the characteristics of Hungarian
and Galician immigrants did not justify separate categories once they had arrived
in New York. However, the most significant aspect of this long and colourful list
is that Opatoshu did not foresee a central hero for his novel. The finished work is
indeed marked by this indecision.
The beginning of Di tentserin is relatively conventional in terms of the accepted
norms of American Yiddish prose — a description of the final days of the voyage of
a group of immigrants aboard a ship bound for New York. At the time of the novel’s
publication this setting had almost become a cliché among Yiddish writers, as is
shown by novellas such as Asch’s Keyn Amerike or the relevant chapters in Motl Peyse
dem khazns by Sholem Aleichem. By contrast, the ending of Di tentserin is wholly
unconventional: Opatoshu’s novel concludes by sealing the fate of the most original
(although not pivotal) character in the work, the death-suicide of Reb Shabse,
who is considered a Hasidic leader and wonderworker. He leaves his domain, the
cave on the outskirts of New York in which he has secluded himself, ostensibly
for an innocent walk in nature, the purpose of which is shrouded in ambiguity: is
this episode about striving for a pantheistic experience, going willingly to death,
or a combination of the two? In any case, Opatoshu’s urban novel ends with a
death scene played out not in the city but in the countryside, far from the bustling
metropolis. What is the meaning of this movement in the course of the text — to
the big city and away from it?
The first chapters, those set aboard the ship, are the only ones in which the
Jewish immigrants have any significant encounter with other ethnic groups, since
there they share a confined physical space and take opposing sides in the squabbles
arising from the prejudices held by each national group and anti-Semitic feelings.
Herein lies the particular significance of these first chapters in the context of
Yiddish fiction concerned with this theme: the descriptions of immigrants aboard
a ship mentioned above in works by Asch and Sholem Aleichem shape a space
that is almost exclusively Jewish,12 leaving the impression that Jews are the main
ethnic group immigrating to America. The suggestion that a journey such as this
has a special ‘Jewish character’ is strengthened, for example, by Sholem Aleichem’s

powerful descriptions of the Yom Kippur prayer service aboard the ship. Opatoshu
availed himself of the same literary material years later and approached it from a
different cultural perspective: whereas Asch and Sholem Aleichem were themselves
new immigrants when they composed their works, Opatoshu had already spent
almost twenty years of his life in America when he wrote Di tentserin. During these
years he had included non-Jewish characters in his novella In nyu-yorker geto (1914)
as well as in many of his stories (the most prominent among them being ‘Lintsheray’
(Lynching), 1923). Keeping in mind this background, the reader is not surprised
to find that he shapes the opening chapters of Di tentserin, those depicting the
immigrants’ journey, in a manner significantly different from that employed by his
predecessors in Yiddish literature. Yet the following sections of the novel portray a
somewhat surprising and paradoxical reality: the moment the characters disembark
from the ship they begin to move in an exclusively Jewish realm.13
The shaping of space in a novel such as this was supposed to be faithful to
the historical reality with which both writer and reader were familiar and at the
same time was supposed to enable meetings between the various characters that
both renew old acquaintances and provide new encounters, at times unexpected
and awkward. The spatial model of Opatoshu’s novel essentially focuses on two
main sites, both of which ref lect traces of social and economic determinism: the
workplace on the one hand, the immigrants’ home on the other. The cramped
apartment in a tenement house shared by a number of landslayt (people originating
from the same town or district in Eastern Europe) does not provide its residents with
complete privacy, yet at the same time it does not totally negate personal space. A
secondary role is reserved for the traditional Jewish public space par excellence, the
wretched besmedresh, the house of study and prayer in the Jewish neighbourhood, by
means of which the traditional Jewish experience, fighting for its life, is integrated
into the novel. In this regard Opatoshu’s novel presents an approach similar to that
expounded by Asch in his early novel Uncle Moses (1917–18) and in his later novel
East River (1946), both of which described the stubborn survival of traditional
Jewish values in the new conditions of the American metropolis.
Yet all of these — workplace, home, besmedresh — are closed spaces which by
their very nature cannot hold any great surprises. In these spaces characters meet
old friends from di alte heym, the old country, and at most renew past friendships,
as for example when the new immigrants reach the apartment of their landslayt
who had settled in New York some years previously (pp. 40–78). Most of the
novel’s characters are unable to reach into New York’s vastness, with all its rich
and unexpected possibilities. Thus the manner in which characters are able to take
advantage of the space in which they move establishes a clear hierarchy, ranking
them according to seniority in the new world. Abe, the successful immigrant, rich
and experienced, is distinguished from his recently arrived fellows by the fact that
he lives in bourgeois surroundings, that he allows himself to house his lover in a
neighbourhood far from the typical immigrant district, the Lower East Side, and
also by his visits to an expensive club where he enjoys nights of debauchery. Yet
aside from him Opatoshu’s novel does not explore the possibilities offered by New
York to surprise, to create a sense of strangeness, fear, wonder, or unexpectedness.

The spatial dimension of the novel parallels the innermost nature of its narrator
and characters, who reveal their leanings towards social and literary conservatism:
the atmosphere of familiarity has acquired the upper hand in the new reality.
This basic feature of the novel dominates until the very last chapters, those set
in the countryside, describing a surprising and unexpected facet of American
Jewish immigrant life. In this context Opatoshu’s novel should be considered a
piece of literary conservatism, for reasons the importance of which can hardly be
overestimated: the Yiddish-speaking intelligentsia bemoaned the disintegration of
the traditional lifestyle necessarily resulting from immigration, and in response
a number of central works of American Yiddish prose attempted to create an
opposing model indicating the domestication of the new and highlighting the
presence of the familiar.
Di tentserin is an example of such a text. Opatoshu himself testified that during his
first years in America he nurtured the hope of writing a novel that would empha
size the cosmopolitan nature of New York; in a letter to Nakhmen Mayzil, who
published a monograph on Opatoshu in 1937, he wrote:
Kh’gedenk, vi nor kh’bin ongekumen keyn Nyu-York, gezen hunderter
felker, dem ‘zeer-anpin’ fun der velt, hob ikh zikh arumgetrogn mitn gedank
ontsushraybn a felker-roman, vu Meshyekh, demolt sotsyalizm, vet muzn
geboyrn vern tsvishn ale felker on heymen, tsvishn felker, vos zenen vayt funem
patryotishn shovinizm.14 (emphasis in the original)
[I remember that when I had just arrived in New York, seeing hundreds of
nations, the world in miniature, I entertained the idea of writing a novel of
nations in which the messiah, then socialism, will necessarily be born among all
the nations without homelands, among nations that are so far away from patriotic
chauvinism.]
This ambition was realized to a certain extent in the author’s earlier novella Fun
nyu-yorker geto, in which Italians and Blacks play a significant role alongside the
Jewish characters at the centre of the work. Yet in Di tentserin, Opatoshu’s most
prominent urban novel, the cosmopolitan nature of New York has no real role. This
may be a result of the vast number of characters already populating the novel and
the fact that striving towards cosmopolitanism would have entailed, according to
Opatoshu’s testimony, articulating a belief about the possibility of fulfilling utopian
dreams. In his early years in New York Opatoshu believed that the messiah would
come to the big city in the garb of socialism. Yet can the metropolitan setting be
transformed into a suitable background for utopian visions? Is a novel published
in a daily newspaper and addressed to readers of varied backgrounds capable
of being a roman à thèse? These are among the fundamental issues that must be
addressed in order to understand the artistic and ideological f luctuation characteristic
of Di tentserin.
A Gallery of Characters
The text of Di tentserin seeks to combine many worlds, among them the story of
Jewish immigration to America, the hectic pace of life in capitalist New York, the
path of a young Jew seeking to break out of the boundaries of his world through
study, the process of change affecting the traditional Jewish realm, the crisis that
befalls the family of an economically successful self-made Jew, the development of
the Jewish labour movement — this sample has not exhausted the long list.
Opatoshu sought to construct a work that could satisfy all the demands placed
upon him — those of the editors of the newspaper in which the work was published
who, as noted above, expected that it would include dramatic episodes, and those
of his readers, who would not allow the omission of any significant ideological
faction of the American Jewish immigrant world. Di tentserin exhibits features
characteristic of the immigration novel in addition to aspects of the urban novel.
At the same time it depicts the spiritual quests of a number of its characters. Herein
lies its significance as a test case of both the possibilities and the limitations of the
Yiddish prose writer in America striving to bring together in one text a range of
heterogeneous thematic elements.
How is it possible to define the roles of the different characters in the novel, those
who inhabit this varied and at times dazzling gallery? On the more conventional,
more predictable, level, Di tentserin is a novel of immigration, and therefore it was
expected to rank its characters in a hierarchy ranging from those who thrived in
the new reality to those who failed to do so. Yet Opatoshu’s text took upon itself
additional tasks, among them an exploration of what remains of Jewish Eastern
Europe in the modern metropolis, and this requires a further cross-section of
characters — the generational gap separating parents and children. Furthermore,
since preserving the traditional East European experience was considered a clearly
utopian endeavour, there exists a third division, that between characters involved
in a spiritual search and those whose only concerns are material matters or the
fulfilment of their erotic desires.
The first striking distinction made in the text contrasts characters representative
of success with those symbolizing failure. On his first day in New York Shloyme
Kufelt,15 once a wealthy businessman who has fallen upon hard times, encounters
his former servant, Abe, who has prospered since his arrival in America. These
two characters represent polar opposites, and the juxtaposition of the American
and the traditional Jewish names is obviously significant. Abe has left behind the
inferior rank that characterized him in Eastern Europe, f lourishing as a result of his
resourcefulness and hard work, while Shloyme Kufelt cannot find his place in the
new reality. Yet in opposition to the successful characters that populate American
Yiddish novels (such as those in Asch’s novels Uncle Moses, Grosman un zun, and to
a lesser extent also East River), in the case of Abe prosperity has not taken a high
moral toll. The novel Di tentserin hints at the familiar thesis that only the young
and dynamic with low moral standards could succeed in America. However, at
the same time the subject of this success story is not a literary villain; the reader is
not supposed to identify with him or rejoice in his material success, but perhaps
he is meant to feel some degree of sympathy for his troubles. Abe, owner of a fowl
slaughterhouse that employs many workers, does not lose the ability to relate to
people from his shtetl and to help them without being overly patronizing, in total
opposition to the model depicted, for instance, in Uncle Moses:
Un Abe hot zikh nisht ibergenumen mit zayn raykhkeyt, nisht geblozn fun
zikh. Er hot geredt vi tsu zayne glaykhe, vi tsu khaveyrim, mit velkhe er hot
zikh shoyn yorn nisht gezen, dertseylt vi er hot kleynerheyt gehungert. (p. 73)
[And Abe did not boast about his wealth, he did not become full of self-
importance. He spoke as one speaks to equals, to friends that one has not seen
for many years, and he told them how he went hungry in his childhood.]
This short characterization, in the overt language characteristic of the novel’s
narrator, appears in the chapter ‘Di landslayt bakenen zikh’ (The landslayt get
acquainted with one another), which describes how those former inhabitants of the
shtetl who had arrived in New York a number of years previously, the veterans,
welcome the immigrants upon their arrival. Although Opatoshu’s novel portrays
some degree of intimacy among landslayt, this is far less pronounced than in
Asch’s earlier novel Uncle Moses. It would appear that this is a result of Opatoshu’s
unconscious wish to diverge from the model formulated by Asch a decade earlier
in his first novel about Jewish life in America. Yet there seems to be a deeper
underlying reason for this lack of saccharine sweetness glorifying the vitality of
the close bonds between landslayt in Opatoshu’s text. These bonds are based on
shared memories, but rather unexpectedly the memory dimension does not play
any significant role in the novel. Considering Opatoshu’s public remarks on the
importance of Jewish cultural continuity and his penchant for historical topics it
is rather surprising that memories of Jewish Eastern Europe are almost completely
absent from this text.
As noted above, Shloyme Kufelt is presented as Abe’s diametric opposite. He
is one of the most obvious examples of a ‘f lat character’, incapable of change. It
is interesting that just as the narrator fails to describe in detail how Abe made his
fortune in America, he is also silent regarding the circumstances that led Shloyme
Kufelt to lose his wealth in Eastern Europe. In American Yiddish prose characters
that find themselves in difficult straits following immigration often demonstrate a
damaging arrogance that prevents them from dealing successfully with the wholly
different reality into which they are cast, clinging to the past and grasping at obsolete
concepts of pedigree and honour. Although Shloyme Kufelt is characterized by a
significant degree of exaggerated self-esteem, this is not the reason for his downfall
in America. He is too old, too passive, and too fair to carve out for himself any path
in the dynamic and demanding new reality.
In addition to the topsy-turvy situation created by the American reality — those
formerly of ‘low rank’ rising up, while those of ‘high rank’ spiral down into the
depths — another, less obvious, distinction should be noted: that between ‘f lesh’
and ‘spirit’. Abe is ‘a man of the f lesh’ in every sense of the term: he amassed
his fortune as an owner of a slaughterhouse and at the same time his vitality and
energy contrast both openly and tacitly with the young man usually referred to as
the ‘doctor’, a medical student in the final stages of his studies who becomes ill
and dies as a result of his terrible living conditions. Between these two extremes
is Volf, another of Shloyme’s former servants who joined him on the journey to
America. Volf is far more dynamic and successful than his past employer; he knows
how to adapt to the new reality and eventually becomes Abe’s heir, achieving
financial well-being and a marriage that is both respectable and well suited to his
personality. Regarding the economic reality, Opatoshu’s novel espouses the notion
current at the time of its writing that the American reality is completely different
from that of Eastern Europe, and no continuity whatsoever exists between the
two. For this reason the efforts of the once successful businessman to transfer even
a small fraction of his wealth to America fail completely, and he quickly discovers
that his commercial skills are useless in the new reality. In America, where everyone
must be reborn through hard work, financial or ancestral pedigree loses its value
and ultimately the violent and crude parvenu is the winner. Di tentserin adopts this
basic model, although it diminishes its melodramatic potential and removes the
moral sting: becoming wealthy does not necessarily mean that a person is wicked or
corrupt, and impoverishment is not necessarily the fate of the just and good.
This analysis has so far focused upon the male characters in the foreground of
the novel; the text implicitly assumes the axiom that enterprise in the new world,
and thus also failure, is the realm of men, while women at most play a secondary
role in the battle for economic survival and well-being.16 Therefore any female
character playing a significant role in the text must appear in a different context,
more problematic in terms of values and morals. Indeed, the person who mediates
between the different characters in the novel is Regina, the dancer, who becomes
a focus of the erotic desires articulated therein: amongst others both Abe and Volf
fall in love with her, while she herself navigates between her various suitors with
a womanly cunning spiced with a degree of elegance, practical sense, and quick-
wittedness. Yet it is doubtful whether her role justifies the centrality accorded to
her in naming the novel Di tentserin. It is likely that this title was intended to entice
the common reader of the newspaper, and there is no doubt that the editor of the
Soviet edition perceived it as too erotically charged: how could the novel’s title be
dedicated to the dubious profession of a dubious woman? It was for this reason that
the Soviet edition was renamed Arum Grend-strit — shifting the spotlight from one
character to the entire panorama of Jewish immigrant life in New York.
Abe and Shloyme are distinguished not only by the fact that Abe is a veteran
immigrant, vigorous and successful, whilst Shloyme, fresh off the boat, is doomed
to failure. Rather, the character of Abe provides the narrator with an opportunity
to widen the human panorama unfolding in the work outside the realm of the
immigrant experience, peeking into the bourgeois life of those who had already
managed to put down reasonably deep roots in America. Abe’s prosperous home
fulfils this function, and at the same time paints an unfavourable picture of those
who have prospered in the new reality, if indirectly. Abe embarks upon an extra-
marital affair with Regina, and his wife’s accidental discovery of the romance
results in a series of melodramatic scenes during which blame is cast and excuses
made, the truth concealed using cheap tricks, money wasted on carnal pleasures,
and Abe eventually moves out of his home. In the world of Di tentserin, such a
romantic betrayal cannot occur among the fresh immigrants: they are too busy
with the arduous battle for daily survival to permit themselves erotic adventures. In
contrast, Abe is presented as someone whose moral norms are more relaxed, while
his wealth enables him to pursue a life of debauchery. This is the main thread of
Opatoshu’s novel depicting the possible negative consequences of material wealth.
In contrast to earlier Yiddish urban novels (the most obvious example being Uncle
Moses), the narrator of Di tentserin does not depict financial exploitation in the
work place as an ethical fault demanding the explicit condemnation of the ‘boss’,
the capitalist employer. Yet at the same time the moral norms of bourgeois life
will always be somewhat questionable; in certain circumstances, when desire (in
this case erotic desire) causes a person to lose all sense of decorum, his shameful
behaviour is revealed in full.
So far only a few of the novel’s main characters have been discussed, yet it is clear
that such a wide gallery forced Opatoshu to make fundamental decisions, including
which characters to place at centre stage and which to leave in the sidelines: the
person occupied with spiritual matters or the character caught up with material
concerns, the one able to carve out a path to financial success in America or the
one who fails to do so? Are the heroes of Opatoshu’s urban novel always victims
trampled under the wheels of life in the big city, or do some of them manage to
avoid such a fate? Many of the readers of the novel at the time of its publication
were also likely to wonder who is (or are) the positive hero(es) in the rich human
gallery depicted in the text.
The text overf lows with thematic wealth, yet this wealth also worked against
the author. Indeed, Di tentserin reveals the inability of the writer to weave together
the threads connecting this varied cast of characters, so far-f lung from each other
in every possible way. The subtitle of the Vilna edition, A shtik yidish lebn in di
yorn 1910–1911 (A slice of Jewish life in the years 1910–1911), performs two separate
functions: on the one hand it emphasizes from the very outset the significant
chronological gap between the time of the novel’s publication and that of its
setting. Indeed, the novel takes place at the height of Jewish mass immigration to
America, while by the time of its publication America’s gates were already closed.
This novel sought to remind its readers, mainly those in America, of an extremely
significant and dramatic chapter in their personal history, a chapter which for them
was already signed and sealed. On the other hand the subtitle also alludes to the
horizontal nature of the text, the action of which takes place during a limited time
period. Such a horizontal text calls for characters that are unlikely to undergo any
significant change during the course of the narrative, since the writer does not
provide them with enough time to do so. It is a text of width rather than depth, as
is openly stated in the author’s above-quoted letter.
Given these constraints, is it possible for any part of the reality to change
significantly, or could it be that one must be satisfied with the desire for change?
Traces of considerable tension are evident in the novel — between its realistic and
sober construction, and the romantic and, at times idealistic, strivings characterizing
some of its main characters, be this Reb Shabse, the almost Hasidic leader; Reb
Avreml, who sits and learns Torah in the dismal besmedresh on the Lower East Side;
Pinkhes, Reb Shabse’s son; or even his sister, who becomes a Christian Scientist.
All these characters refuse to bow to the constraints placed upon them, seeking
to overcome them, yet the narrator does not assign any significant place to their
dreams and hopes.
Indeed, Opatoshu’s novel creates a tension between the realistic depiction of
the social surroundings and the inherent romanticism of the characters’ strivings,
a tension that is deeply embedded in the development of the modern Yiddish
novel. In one of his early articles Shmuel Niger made use of the similarity between
the terms roman (novel) and romantik (romanticism) to highlight a basic trend in
contemporary Yiddish prose:
Di hayntike yidishe literatur vil shafn a roman, un ire zukhenishn zaynen
romantish. Roman — in der form. Romantizm — in inhalt. Dos zaynen di tsvey
hoyptshtrebungen fun der hayntiker yidisher literatur.17
[Today’s Yiddish literature seeks to create a roman (novel) and its quests are
romantic. The novel — as form. Romanticism — in content. These are the two
main trends of modern Yiddish literature.]
This article was written in 1913 under the spell of the two pioneering modern
Yiddish novels written in Eastern Europe — Asch’s Meri and Dovid Bergelson’s
Nokh alemen (The End of Everything). Likewise, the first novel published by a
member of Di Yunge in New York, In keslgrub (In the whirlpool) by Dovid Ignatov,
fits this description. Romantic elements are also clearly discernible in the plots of
Opatoshu’s most important novel, In poylishe velder, and in Aleyn (Alone), one of
his minor novels written in the same period, yet when he turned to a description
of American Jewish immigrant life in works such as Fun nyu-yorker geto and Hibru
he did not accord these elements any presence in the fabric of the text. They are
guided by the basic premise that the world of Jewish immigration to America is
characterized by such a stubborn and cruel battle to achieve the minimal conditions
for basic human existence that there is no room for so-called ‘romantic’ strivings.
Unlike that of Ignatov and A. Raboy, Opatoshu’s writing shapes a world that
crushes the spirit and has no mercy upon it. It implicitly accepts the presumption
that spiritual struggles and ideological quandaries were restricted to Jewish Eastern
Europe; they have no place in America. No text offers a better example of this than
Opatoshu’s short novel Hibru (1918–20), in which Jewish educators are depicted
as empty and superficial. This is especially striking in light of the reader’s likely
expectations concerning the inner world of characters meant to represent the
modern Jewish intelligentsia.
Di tentserin, Opatoshu’s sweeping novel of the mid-1920s, adopts a much more
ambiguous stance regarding the chances for spiritual search to thrive in American
Jewish immigrant society. In an interview given by Opatoshu during his visit to
Poland in 1928 (two years after the novel’s publication in Der tog and before its
book edition appeared) he hinted at the potential for fusing two opposing trends in
Yiddish literature:
Afile der realist vet dos groye lebn makhn shener in zayne verk [...]. Un men
darf nisht moyre hobn far der romantishkeyt. Vu es zigt dos gezunte, dort vert
oykh dos reale — romantish [...]. Dos vos bagaystert — iz romantish.18
[Even the realist writer will beautify grey life in his works [...]. And one must
not fear romanticisim. Where the healthy triumphs, there also the realistic
becomes romantic [...]. That which inspires is romantic.]
Yet the reader of Di tentserin will find it difficult to single out any one character
likely to inspire him — in terms of human depth and complexity or intellectual
and emotional wealth. It seems that this is the main artistic shortcoming of
Opatoshu’s works in general — the realist in him was unable to allow his characters
to spread their wings. It is almost impossible to point to a single source of blame
for this artistic failure — it may have been a result of the novel’s initial publication
in a newspaper or because of the writer’s basic belief that the American Jewish
reality can only create superficial characters, far removed from the psychological
complexity likely to capture the reader’s heart. In all likelihood it was the result
of a combination of factors that underline the inherent limitations on the creative
horizon of the Yiddish writer, yet at the same time disclose the artistic potential
present in American Jewish life. A brief glance at Mordkhe, the hero of In poylishe
velder, can be illuminating in this regard: although he is also marked by a kind of
artistic coarseness, the writer endows Mordkhe with at least one fundamental grace
— the impulse to embark upon a spiritual search. By contrast, in Di tentserin it is
hard to find even one character imbued with such inner striving.
Those sections of the text, not few in number, that attempt to articulate the
inner world of the characters, are indeed a major proof of the writer’s significant
artistic limitations. They all share a basic element: thoughts and feelings expressed
in the novel are always an immediate reaction to the very specific circumstances in
which the characters find themselves, to the here and now of their current situation.
This is true even when such a situation triggers the expression of a rather shallow
generalization, and certainly in other cases, more frequent, in which a character’s
way of thinking is unable to transcend the limitations imposed upon him by his
surroundings. As in most of Opatoshu’s other works, in Di tentserin the writer does
not allow his characters to sail on the wings of imagination.
The text of this novel is thus marked by an interesting contradiction: as noted
above, Opatoshu emphasized in many articles and interviews the importance of
the cultural and historical consciousness that should serve the Yiddish writer as a
guiding principle. Yet at the same time his characters are devoid of this quality,
since they lack a basic attribute: the power of memory. Episodes in which a character
remembers an event or an episode from his past, either recent or distant, are rather
rare.19 For the most part the characters do not recall anything from the recent
history described in the work itself, even more so from the distant past. This is
especially striking, for example, in the case of a character such as Shloyme Kufelt, a
respected figure who, it may be presumed, left behind family and friends in Eastern
Europe; yet in no part of the novel does he mention them. The text introduces a
number of narrative scenes, quite melodramatic, from the characters’ past — for
example, when Regina remembers how her mother abandoned her — but these
serve as a means to develop and advance a conversation and almost never take the
form of inner memories. These features seem to point to a kind of ‘behaviouristic’
code governing Opatoshu’s work that dictates the importance of constant forward
motion for each and every character in the fabric of the text and significantly
reduces the possible role played by memories and consciousness about the past.
At the time of the novel’s publication characters such as Abe, Shloyme Kufelt,
and the ‘doctor’ could not boast any artistic originality, even considering the
relatively short lifespan of the American Yiddish novel. Only one character in
the text constitutes an exception to this rule: Reb Shabse, who first appears only
incidentally and at quite a late stage in the narrative, but whose presence becomes
gradually more significant as the novel progresses towards its conclusion. Reb
Shabse plays a surprising role in Di tentserin — he serves as a kind of Hasidic rabbi in
New York. How can such a character fit into a novel set against the background of
Jewish immigration to the metropolis around 1910? Opatoshu had to tackle serious
artistic difficulties in order to introduce such a character into the fabric of the text,
although these difficulties in fact enhanced the inherent mystery surrounding him.
The tortuous path of Reb Shabse’s life is far from stable, and his role as a Hasidic
leader is quite unexpected. He is certainly not a spiritual hero in the full sense
of the term, yet circumstances draw him towards this status. Reb Shabse’s past
history hints at his problematic nature: upon arriving in America he abandoned
his wife and children (hardly acceptable behaviour for a man destined to serve as a
spiritual leader) and returned to Eastern Europe, only to reappear suddenly in New
York. The only reasonable explanation provided for these episodes is his inherent
restlessness. Reb Shabse does not settle in the tumultuous metropolis but rather
chooses to find refuge in nature, a result of his feelings of disgust at the presence
of a crowd, a trait reminiscent of Menakhem Mendl of Kotsk, a central character
in In poylishe velder.20 As with Menakhem Mendl of Kotsk, although in totally
different circumstances, Reb Shabse’s f light from the busy city and the modern
world does not reduce his appeal, and the cave to which he retreats becomes a place
of pilgrimage for those who believe in his ability to perform miracles and cure the
sick, even though he himself does not share this conviction.
Reb Shabse is not the only character in the novel to cling to the traditional
world; alongside him are others, sitting in the wretched besmedresh, learning Torah
and adhering to the time-honoured way of life. Yet in shaping the character of
Reb Shabse, Opatoshu dared to perform an interesting artistic experiment, almost
unique in contemporary American Yiddish prose — an attempt to transfer the
Hasidic experience to the New Country. There can be no doubt that this is the
most original element in Opatoshu’s novel. Reb Shabse symbolizes the encounter
between two cultural realms as the traditional world of Jewish Eastern Europe
attempts to establish a foothold in the new reality. However, Reb Shabse also
performs another role: he is the only significant character in the novel to embark
upon a search for mystical transcendence.
How can Opatoshu’s novel succeed in bridging the gap between these different
worlds — between Abe’s slaughterhouse, representing the ‘f lesh’, the material, in
every sense of the word, and the enigmatic Reb Shabse, symbolizing the ‘spirit’?
At the novel’s close Pinkhes, Reb Shabse’s son, bears the weight of this role on his
shoulders, serving as the link between the two. On the one hand he should be a
man of idealistic leanings, as is hinted at by his serious involvement in the labour
movement; on the other hand, mutual erotic attraction ties him to Regina, Abe’s
lover. Yet Pinkhes’s significance in the novel goes beyond this. As noted above,
most of the characters in this text are undoubtedly ‘f lat’. The writer does not
grant them any ability to change, and at most they are able to reveal an additional
quality that does not contradict the basic features ascribed to them from the time
of their first appearance. The only individual to undergo a considerable process of
change and spiritual conversion is Pinkhes, but in light of the norms of the text it
is difficult to expect the narrator to describe these inner changes in a convincing
manner. Pinkhes is a former American-style yeshiva student who suddenly ‘sees the
light’ and becomes an activist in the American labour movement. Yet later in the
novel, when he draws closer to his father, Reb Shabse, this episode is completely
erased from his characterization and inner memory. In Opatoshu’s novel Pinkhes
should have personified the spiritual uncertainties of a young Jew contemplating
the different cultural possibilities offered by America — dangling between the
orthodox world and modern life, between the yeshiva and the labour movement.
Yet these quandaries are depicted too hastily and it is evident that the narrator does
not excel in his ability to portray a complex character whose life is imbued with a
spiritual dimension.
Such a rich gallery of characters accords Di tentserin a special place in Opatoshu’s
long artistic career, but this novel has not yet received the attention it deserves,
mainly because a critical analysis of the author’s large literary output is still
lacking. From the beginning of his career Opatoshu’s writing was distinguished
by a pendulum-like thematic f luctuation between Eastern Europe and America:
following his first novella, A roman fun a ferd-ganev (A Romance of a horse thief,
1912) which focused on characters at the edge of the Jewish underworld in an East
European shtetl, he wrote Fun nyu-yorker geto (1914), a novella that contemplates
the shabby life of Jewish immigrants and their children in New York. In the same
years he penned two additional short novels concerned with two totally different
worlds — one taking place in the Polish forests, Aleyn (this should not be confused
with In poylishe velder) and the other set in New York — the above-mentioned novel
Hibru, concerning Jewish educators. Within this context it is clear that Di tentserin
strove to shape a new literary model: the long-awaited synthesis of traditional
Jewish society and the new world in the form of Reb Shabse, the surrogate Hasidic
rabbi in America. His character is cloaked in double meaning: at times it seems that
he embodies the chances for Jewish spiritual renewal in America, but the novel
eventually drives him towards self-destruction and death.
Between Kotsk and New York

It is not difficult to understand why, among all characters in the novel, Reb
Shabse was the most likely to generate serious disagreements among the novel’s
critics, according to their ideological leanings. It was only to be expected that this
character would arouse the wrath of a critic such as Shakhne Epshteyn and indeed,
in his short foreword to the Soviet edition of the novel discussed above, he bluntly
articulated his opinion on this matter. His words can serve as an example of the
language of Soviet Yiddish criticism of the period:

S’hot, oser, geloynt di mi aropshlepn azh fun yener zayt yam reb Shabsen,
kedey in zayn geshtalt un in geshtalt fun der gantser manyakisher svive arum
im shildern dos yidishe lebn in Amerike. Vos bakumt zikh in sakhakl? Nit dos
moderne lebn in der hoyptshtot fun velt-kapitalizm hobn mir do, nor a shtik
vild mitl-alter.
[It really was not worth the effort of dragging Reb Shabse from the other side of
the ocean in order to describe Jewish life in America by means of his character
and the character of his insane surroundings. What do we get at the end of it?
Not the modern life in the world capital of capitalism but a weird piece from
the Middle Ages.]
In total contrast to Epshteyn’s opinion, a writer such as Arn Tseytlin, who boasted
of his fondness for mysticism and believed that mystical strivings should be accorded
a prominent place in Yiddish literature, considered Reb Shabse the focal point
of the entire work.21 But there can be no doubt that such extreme claims are
unbalanced: although the structure of Di tentserin assigns a significant role to Reb
Shabse — the final chapters of the work are devoted to him and his last days — he
does not serve as the thematic or human pivot of the novel, since there is no one
character that does so.
The fact that Reb Shabse and his role in the novel became a bone of contention
among the various critics provides a glimpse into their various ideological agendas.
Leivick’s assessment (which may well ref lect the views of the author, his close
friend) differed from those of Epsteyn and Tseytlin. He considered Reb Shabse
‘dem farnikhtndikn tsar fun got-farlirenish. Nit got-zukhenish nor got-farlirenish’
(‘the destructive sorrow of the loss of God. Not a search for God but a loss of
God’),22 a spiritual configuration which was in his opinion also true of ‘i der
alter kotsker tsadik, i der borveser, i Mordkhe aleyn — di heldn fun di “Poylishe
velder” ’ (‘The old Kotsker Hasidic rebbe, the barefoot hero of “In Polish Woods” and
Mordkhe himself — the characters of that novel’). In Leivick’s opinion Reb Shabse
is the last Hasidic rebbe of New York, and his death signifies the end of religious
and mystical strivings in the modern urban reality.23
How can Reb Shabse’s characterization elicit such opposing views? How are the
concluding chapters of Di tentserin to be understood in the general context of the
novel? In what way do they attempt to draw together the various narrative threads?
In order to answer these questions it is necessary to understand the structure of
the novel as a whole. At the opening of the text the ship carrying the immigrants
is approaching the ‘promised land’. Its literary function is clear, since aboard are a
number of characters who will take on a central role in the narrative, although their
relative significance changes throughout the text: Shloyme Kufelt, the businessman
fallen upon hard times, is pushed to the margins of the literary stage, whereas his
travelling companion Volf, who at first appears a minor character, becomes more
significant than his former employer as the novel continues, rising to a level of
prominence akin to that of Regina the dancer. The meeting in the immigrants’
apartment that takes place on their first day in New York introduces a number of
new characters: Abe, the ‘doctor’, and later also Pinkhes. These are the spatial focal
points of the text, its centripetal forces. In the second half of the work, however, it
becomes clear that the narratives spun around these various characters unravel the
structure of the story and cause it to disintegrate: what is the connection between
Abe and his lover Regina on the one hand and Reb Shabse on the other? How
is it possible to connect Pinkhes, the yeshiva student sick of his former life who
becomes an activist in the labour movement, with Abe? It seems that the structure
of Di tentserin attempts to ref lect accurately the lives of Jewish immigrants in New
York: rich in incidents, amorphous (yet not unexpected), deceptive, with no clear
focal point.
Vitality is the main feature of many characters in the novel, and there can be no
doubt that much remains in store for them even after the conclusion of the text:
Volf has married and is on the way to substantial financial success; Abe, in the
prime of life, has left his home, apparently in order to move in with his concubine;
Pinkhes is a young man searching for his way, and only Shloyme Kufelt finds
himself trapped in an irreversible downward spiral. The greatly differing fates of
the central characters in the novel create a serious challenge: how should it end?
Hence the decision to devote the final chapters to the last days of Reb Shabse is of
great artistic and ideological significance: Opatoshu’s main American novel does
not conclude with life but rather with death. This is of course one of the most
accepted and conventional means to end a literary text, in particular a novel, but
in this specific case it seems that death cannot do justice to the wide variety of
characters and their fates.
There is no doubt that Reb Shabse is the most idiosyncratic character in the
novel; with his unexpected return to New York he appears both to those around
him and to the narrator as a man on the verge of madness, clearly unable to settle
into normal daily life.24 His departure from the hectic metropolis of New York,
leaving behind his family, and his seclusion in a cave articulate a radical rejection
of modern civilization and convey feelings of scorn and disgust at normal and
simple human behaviour. As noted above, this seclusion transplants the model of
Menakhem Mendl of Kotsk, a pivotal figure in In poylishe velder, into a completely
different reality: Reb Shabse was never an established Hasidic leader; he did not
found or run a court. He does not preach or offer weekly sermons based on biblical
exegesis, as Hasidic rabbis are expected to do. Yet at the same time the most
negative characteristics attributed to East European Hasidism in modern literature
are ascribed to him: the superstitious beliefs of his followers in his abilities to
perform miracles. In a dry realist style using sharp-edged language the narrator
describes the commercialized frenzy that begins to take shape around him:
Un az der oylem hot mit yedn tog genumen vaksn, hot a yid aropgebrakht a
shtel, farkoyft limonad, kikhlekh, oybs, a tsveyter hot oysgeboyt a bongelo,
vu m’hot gekrogn a moltsayt optsuesn. Arum Shvues zenen shoyn geshtanen
bongelos mit shildn, vu es zenen geven oysgerekhnt di prayzn far esn un shlofn.
(p. 345)
[And as the crowd began to grow daily a Jew arrived with a stall, sold lemonade,
biscuits, fruit, a second Jew built a bungalow where one could have a meal.
Around Shavuot there were already bungalows with signs listing the prices for
food and lodging.]
Descriptions such as these contribute to the deliberate fusion of the ‘material’ and
the ‘spiritual’ in the last chapters of the book, and there can be no doubt that the
‘material’ acquires the upper hand. Reb Shabse himself is not present during these
scenes: he does not leave his place of seclusion, his voice is not heard, and thus the
spiritual dimension is largely lacking. The commercial atmosphere so characteristic
of his followers, caught up in their everyday concerns and superstitious beliefs, takes
over completely.
The final chapters of the book leave the clear impression that the isolated sparks
of the ‘holy’ are drowning in a sea of the ‘profane’. The most pressing question
concerning these chapters is how they attempt to weave together the various
narrative threads of the book, and admittedly the stitches doing so are crude,
especially concerning the complex relations between father and son, Reb Shabse
and Pinkhes. While the father is surrounded by an aura of mysticism, his son, who
according to Hasidic tradition should inherit the position of leader, is far from
sharing these feelings. In the earlier parts of the novel Pinkhes was an activist in
the American labour movement, yet later on this aspect of his biography, which
in retrospect appears short and episodic, is completely forgotten. At the end of the
novel he is to be found in the midst of a totally different experience: a search for
erotic satisfaction, after meeting Regina by chance at a hotel close to where Reb
Shabse is located. A stark contrast arises between the hedonistic atmosphere of the
holiday resort on the outskirts of New York, its residents engaged in enjoyment
and dancing, and the (pseudo)-religious experience centred on Reb Shabse. Upon
reading these chapters it is difficult to decide whether the novel seeks to create a
deliberately grotesque critique of Jewish life in America or whether these pages
should be considered proof of the writer’s callousness, convinced that he will indeed
be able to construct a successful collage from highly heterogeneous elements.
Indeed, eros and thanatos come dangerously close in these episodes: the walk
outdoors serves as an appropriate backdrop to the fulfilment of Regina and
Pinkhes’s erotic desires, yet immediately after the full extent of their love has been
revealed Pinkhes encounters his father’s severed head, decapitated by the wheels of a
speeding train, which appeared in Reb Shabses’s furious imagination as a menacing
‘demon’. This death on the train tracks, showing the traces of more than a hint at
suicidal intentions, is a simple and bare symbol of the clash between spiritual values
and modern technology. The text thus concludes with a rather melodramatic scene
in which the son is witness to the death-suicide of his father.
In this way the ending of Di tentserin, a novel about Jewish life in New York,
echoes that of In poylishe velder. Opatoshu’s earlier novel also concludes with a death
— that of Menakhem Mendl of Kotsk — although in that case the author’s hands
were tied in describing the passing of a well-known Hasidic leader admired by Jews
for generations. Since In poylishe velder was shaped as a historical novel, the narrator
describes in detail the preparations for the funeral of Menakhem Mendl of Kotsk
and the ceremony itself, conducted according to the minutest details of age-old laws
and traditions. This is an experience that has no place in a text set in the new world
where, in the author’s opinion, the traditional Jewish way of life is disintegrating.
There can be no doubt that just as Reb Shabse in America is only a pale ref lection
of Menakhem Mendl of Kotsk, so too Pinkhes is implicitly dwarfed by Mordkhe’s

stature in Opatoshu’s earlier novel.
A comparison of the endings of these two novels, written by the same author in
the span of a decade, can help us arrive at a better understanding of the strengths
and weaknesses of a Yiddish novel about Jewish life in America. It should be
noted, for example, that the central character of the historical novel set in Jewish
Poland is young, both in years and in spirit. Yet in Di tentserin, a text lacking
such a central character, the narrator navigates between representatives of two
generations, eventually favouring the older: Reb Shabse is more intriguing than his
son. Opatoshu’s historical novel set in the nineteenth century presents an ending
combining two distinct threads: on the one hand the passing of the much-admired
Hasidic leader; on the other its main character, Mordkhe, is preparing to leave
Poland for Paris and embark upon a new path in life. He is a wanderer by nature,
seeking transcendental truth. None of the many figures populating the pages of Di
tentserin is imbued with this attribute.
Opatoshu’s most significant urban novel, with its dazzling human gallery and
thematic richness, constitutes an important example of the artistic possibilities
available to American Yiddish writers at the height of their creativity. Opatoshu
sought to construct a work that would meet all the demands upon him — the
explicit stipulation of the newspaper editors that the text include dramatic episodes,
as well as the implicit belief that readers expected it to cover the main ideological
trends of contemporary Jewish life. In so doing, Di tentserin combines features of
the Jewish immigrant novel and the urban novel and in addition attempts to depict
the spiritual struggles of a number of its characters. Herein lies its significance: it is
a test case of the ability of the American Yiddish prose writer to fuse in one novel
a variety of thematic elements so heterogeneous in their nature that they could
hardly inhabit the same text. Perhaps in this sense Opatoshu’s novel is a faithful
representation of the real-life experiences that serve as its background.
Translated from the Hebrew by Rebecca Wolpe
Notes to Chapter 10
1. Letter from 5 November 1925, Der tog collection, YIVO Archives, New York.
2. Full details concerning his publications in Der tog may be found in Opatoshu-biblyografye (New
York, 1937); Second fascicle: 1937–47 (New York, 1947).
3. On the beginnings of Der tog see J. Chaikin, Yidishe bleter in Amerike (New York, 1946),
pp. 231–40.
4. The subtitles of the two novels printed simultaneously in Der tog are similar in their vagueness:
Di tentserin bore the subtitle A roman fun yidishn lebn in Amerika (A novel about Jewish life in
America), whilst the non-canonical novel printed at the same time in the newspaper, ‘Feygele’,
was subtitled A roman fun yidishn lebn in Nyu-York (A novel about Jewish life in New York). The
latter is signed with a pen name which to this day remains shrouded in mystery, ‘Clara Levin’
(it is highly improbable that this novel was written by Anna Margolin, although she was at that
time a contributor to Der tog and also used this pen name sporadically).
5. Apparently Opatoshu was very popular among Yiddish readers in the Soviet Union even before
the publication of Soviet editions of a number of his works. In an interview with I. J. Singer
upon his return from the Soviet Union he noted that ‘the copies of Di poylishe velder had been
read so many times that only worn out pages were left’. It seems that this testimony may be taken
at face value and was not merely a result of the intimacy between I. J. Singer and Opatoshu.
See Yud-Beys [Y. Bashevis], ‘Y. Y. Singer vegn der literatur un kultur-lebn in Ratn-farband’,
Literarishe bleter, 3 (1927), 4.
6. Perets Markish’s letters to Opatoshu, as well as those of other Soviet Yiddish writers, include
significant and informative material on the topic. They have been collected in Briv fun yidishe
sovetishe shraybers, ed. by E. Lifschutz and M. Altshuler ( Jerusalem: Hebreysher universitet in
Yerusholaym, 1990). It should be noted that Opatoshu and H. Leivick were the two main
American Yiddish writers with whom their Soviet colleagues corresponded in the years when
such communication was possible.
7. So Y. Nusinov put it in a letter to Opatoshu dated 1 November 1930. See Briv fun yidishe sovetishe
shraybers, p. 357. Harsh criticism of the publication of the book was also voiced in M. Altshuler’s
article, ‘Fun leninistisher onfirung veln mir zikh nit opzogn!’, Der emes, 2 October 1929.
8. Abraham Cahan, ‘Di tentserin, roman fun Yoysef Opatoshu’, Forverts, 21 September 1930.
Opatoshu responded sharply in his article ‘Rishes’, Der oyfkum, October–November 1930,
pp. 3–8.
9. J. Opatoshu, ‘Hekhsheyrim: An ofener briv tsu Shakhne Epshteyn’, Vokh 3, 18 October 1929,
pp. 11–13 (a protest against the foreword to the Soviet introduction to another novel by Opa
toshu, 1863); H. Leivick, ‘Got farlirenish’, Vokh, 9, 29 November 1929, pp. 16–17.
10. Sh. Niger, ‘Y. Opatoshus roman di tentserin’, Literarishe bleter, 6 (1930), 595.
11. Letter dated 15 December 1925, H. Leivick collection, YIVO archive. The letter was written
whilst Leivick was in the Soviet Union.
12. Asch mentions non-Jews incidentally; see his work Keyn Amerike (New York: Forverts, 1911),
pp. 52–61.
13. It is highly illuminating that among the exceptions to this is the scene in which Pinkhes, one
of the two most prominent characters in the novel actively involved in the labour movement,
experiences the reality of hard physical work in New York. This provides an opportunity for
him to encounter people of other nations and races (pp. 160–62; all page numbers from here on
refer to the Vilna edition of the work).
14. Nakhmen Mayzil, Yoysef Opatoshu: Zayn lebn un shafn (Warsaw: Literarishe bleter, 1937),
pp. 116–17.
15. It should be noted that he is the only character in the work with a surname. In shtetlekh at the
beginning of the twentieth century this was not accepted practice, thus providing evidence of
the respect and distance with which a certain person was treated.
16. Asch’s novel Di muter challenges this assumption, yet even in this work the role of the mother
is restricted to the home; the daughter is the one destined to break through the boundaries of
gender.
17. Shmuel Niger, Shmuesen vegen bikher (New York: Yidish, 1922), p. 105. See also my entry ‘Rom
antika besifrut yidish’, Zeman yehudi khadash: tarbut yehudit be-idan khiloni, 3 (2006), pp. 78–83.
18. J. Opatoshu, ‘Vegn di vikhtikste problemen fun der yidisher literatur: intervyu’, Bikhervelt, 4
(1928), 3.
19. Pinkhes’s fond memories of his walk in nature during which his father spoke to him of the
divine presence in the world (pp. 154–56) constitute a rather exceptional instance in the fabric of
the text. These fragments should indeed be considered additional evidence of the special status
accorded to these two characters in the novel.
20. A number of critics highlighted the similarity between the two characters, and the writer
himself indicated this in one of his letters, as quoted in Mayzil, Yoysef Opatoshu, p. 134: Dos
zenen di zelbe in ‘Di poylishe velder’: Shabse — Kotsker, Avreml — Itshe Meyer (‘The same characters
appear in In poylishe velder: Shabse — Kotsker, Avreml — Itshe Meyer’).
21. Arn Tseytlin, ‘Der heyliker valdmentsh un zayn zun’, Literarishe bleter, 8 (1931), 82–83.
22. Leivick, ‘Got-farlirenish’.
23. Opatoshu himself characterized Di tentserin as the American continuation of In poylishe velder in
a letter written to Y. Meitlis in the 1930s regarding the possibility of translating the novel into
German. See Meitlis, ‘Bagegenishn mit Yoysef Opatoshu’, Di goldene keyt, 88 (1975), 185.
24. See for example his portrayal by one of the characters (p. 87) and by the narrator (pp. 152–53).
C h a p t e r 11
v
Cityscapes of Yidishkayt:
Opatoshu’s New York Trilogy
Mikhail Krutikov
The American Yiddish critic Borekh Rivkin argued that Opatoshu was the first
writer who created a Yiddish ‘literary territory’ in America by representing
American landscapes as physical space. Indeed, one of the distinct features of the
poetics of Di Yunge, a modernist literary group to which Opatoshu belonged
during his early years in America, was the engagement with American reality it its
diversity. Urban, industrial, and agricultural landscapes in their regional variations
served as vehicles for symbolic representations of subjective feelings and states of
mind of individual characters as well as religious, political, and cultural ideas.
Although today Di Yunge are remembered mostly for their contribution to Yiddish
poetry, their impact on the transformation of Yiddish prose was no less significant.
Two major figures in the development of the new artistic Yiddish prose were Dovid
Ignatov and Joseph Opatoshu. Both created their own modernist visions of New
York City as a space that actively shaped lives and fates of its inhabitants. Opatoshu
published his early work in Shriftn (Writings), the publication of Di Yunge and
the brainchild of its charismatic leader Dovid Ignatov. But after the second issue,
which appeared in 1913, Opatoshu and a few other writers created their own
publication, Di naye heym (The New Home).1 Apart from personal reasons, the split
had aesthetic reasons. One of the reviewers of the second issue of Shriftn praised
the publication for breaking the confines of the ‘ghetto’ and taking the action out
to the ‘broad American farmland’.2 Opatoshu, unlike Ignatov and some other
members of Di Yunge such as Isaac Raboy, was more interested in the ‘ghetto’
life than in exploring the new American space. Nine years later, in a conversation
with Nakhmen Mayzel in Warsaw, he attributed the split to the ‘natural difference’
between the ‘neo-realists’ and the ‘abstract romantics’, whereas Rivkin divided
them into the ‘sober’ (nikhtere) and the ‘intoxicated’ (shikere) ones: ‘the fantacists
remained with the Shriftn, and the sober ones went over to Di naye heym’.3
The new modernist style inaugurated by Di Yunge transformed the literary image
of New York. From an inanimate backdrop of humorous sketches or conventional
melodramas it became a powerful material and spiritual force actively shaping the
lives and fates of literary characters. Inspired by the symbolist representations of
the city by the Russian writers Andrei Bely and Fiodor Sologub, Ignatov portrayed
Cityscapes of Yidishkayt 161
New York as a brutal and inhuman riz, a giant monster which crushed bodies and
minds of its little residents entangled in the vast grid of streets and avenues. Even
more sinister was the dark image of the city in Moyshe Leyb Halpern’s collection of
expressionist metaphysical poems In Nyu-york. Unlike his ‘intoxicated’ colleagues
among Di Yunge, Opatoshu did not use in his depictions of contemporary reality
(as opposed to his historical fiction) metaphysical and symbolist imagery, preferring
the mundane and the material. In contrast to Ignatov, Opatoshu’s vision of the city
was not lofty and panoramic, but fragmented and eclectic. His point of view was
always located inside, among the street crowd, within a market, an apartment, or a
saloon. Opatoshu’s space was somber, tense, and permeated with strong passions such
as lust, envy, and greed. One can identify four types of urban space in Opatoshu’s
New York: (a) a Jewish space as part of the ethnically demarcated territory, such as
synagogues and shtiblekh, kosher slaughter houses and restaurants; (b) a family space,
such as rented apartments, boarding rooms, private homes; (c) a social space of
interaction between different classes and ethnic groups, such as streets, parks, as well
as places of work and business space; (d) a space of leisure, such as a saloon, theatre,
club, hotel, restaurant, which often also serves as space of erotic encounter.
Michel Foucault defined ‘the present epoch’ as ‘the epoch of space’, as opposed
to the nineteenth-century ‘epoch of time’: ‘we are in the epoch of simultaneity:
we are in the epoch of juxtaposition, the epoch of the near and far, of the side-
by-side, of the dispersed’. Thus the dispersion of Jews across the modern world,
their mass migrations into big cities and overseas, makes them a primary collective
representative of the ‘present epoch’. Opatoshu’s New York fiction provides good
illustrations for the conclusion that Foucault draws from his observation: ‘the
anxiety of our era has to do fundamentally with space, no doubt a great deal more
than with time’.4 Opatoshu’s urban space is always contested by individuals and
groups; it is an arena of constant struggle between men and women, employers and
workers, Jews and Gentiles, the old and the young. This struggle produces a new
urban American type of yidishkayt. Opatoshu examines this yidishkayt closely and
inquisitively, trying to understand how strong, sustainable, and reliable it is. Can
it withstand the economic, social, cultural, sexual pressures of modernity? Can it
be transmitted to the new generation of Jews born and bred in America? Does it
create a new ‘ghetto’ for Jews or is it open for interaction with other ethnic and
religious groups? Eventually, Opatoshu’s view of the present and the future of
American Jewry, like the views of most of Yiddish writers, is pessimistic. Most of
his stories are narratives of failure, both physical and spiritual, but first and foremost
of a failure to conquer the space, to establish a personal or communal territory of
yidishkayt. To illustrate this point, I turn to three works written during the first two
decades of Opatoshu’s American career, all of which deal with the early twentieth-
century period: the novella Fun Nyu-yorker geto (From the New York Ghetto,
1914), and the novels Hibru (Hebrew, 1920) and Di tentserin (The Female Dancer,
1930; first published as Arum grend-strit, Around Grand Street, 1929). In his later
years, Opatoshu produced no large-scale American work, but continued to depict
American reality in short stories.
162 Mikhail Krutikov
Fun Nyu-yorker geto

The novella appeared in the first (and the last) issue of Di naye heym (1914). It was
enthusiastically greeted by Sholem Aleichem, who praised Opatoshu above all
American Yiddish writers both for portraying ‘clear, pure, lively types [klore, loytere,
lebedike tipn]’ and for reproducing their idiomatic speech, comparing him to Dickens
and Thackeray. He strongly advised Opatoshu to continue writing about America:
You know our ghetto in that hell that is called New York [...] Your thing is
to paint pictures of New York ghetto, of American Jews. You will enrich our
literature by adding a new chapter and you will become famous among other
nations as well.5
Set in the Lower East Side, the novella examines a failed attempt to escape from
the narrow confines of the Jewish ‘ghetto’ into the broader world by depicting one
day in the life of a young and ambitious Jewish teenager. Sam has an ambiguous
attitude to Jews and yidishkayt. When among Jews, he tries to act and look non-
Jewish: he has a dog named Sport and the walls of his room are decorated with
pictures of fayters (fighters; like many other Americanisms in the novella, this
word is written phonetically in Yiddish characters). He detests the Jewish songes
(singsong) intonation and makes fun of the Jewish accent and ‘wild grimaces’ when
Jews speak English, yet he gets angry when the same patterns are ridiculed by a
Gentile. Sam’s intermediate cultural and social position between Jews and Gentiles is
metonymically represented by his constant shifting between the clearly demarcated
and spatially enclosed Jewish territory of the ‘ghetto’ and the open Gentile spaces of
the city. He is both attracted and scared by the opportunities offered by those new
and exciting spaces and is keen to explore them. The Jewish space in the novella is
organized around the daily commercial routine of its residents. Its spatial structure
clearly indicates the social hierarchy in this aspiring petty-bourgeois community.
The most prestigious position is occupied by the local drugstore, followed by shops,
saloons, street stands, and peddlers. Streets are teeming with people doing their
business from before dawn until after nightfall. The first ones to appear on the
streets are teenage boys who deliver milk, bakery, and newspapers. Even within
this youngest category of workers each ethnic group, such as the Jews, the Italians,
the Germans, and the Irish, is visibly distinguished from others by its speech,
appearance, and mannerisms. The nyus-dilers (news-dealers) are divided into two
groups: ‘students’, stereotypical Jewish intellectuals who are debating the ‘Russian
question’ while sorting newspapers for delivery, and mischievous local shkotsim
(Gentile boys), always ready to perform pranks on the students.
Having finished his round of delivering newspapers to the customers of his
employer with the emblematic name of Mrs Rich, Sam escapes to the nearby
woods where he meets a tramp who made his temporary dwelling place out of an
unused water pipe. Sam is both scared and excited by this encounter with this social
outcast:
although he knew that thousands of them are killed every year, that they sneak
into trains to ride on the springs under the carriages and are hurled under the
train at fast speed, this free tramp life always attracted him. One of his most
beautiful dreams was to pop off one morning, without saying good-bye, to the
Wild West.6
In contrast to the narrow and overcrowded streets of the ‘ghetto’, the wide vistas
of the avenues promise freedom and mobility, which is embodied in Gentile boys
and girls holding hands and running on roling-skeyts: ‘the broad tarmac street that
stretched for miles up and downhill, a girl with a long braid and gracious movements
made Sam feel agitated and wild’ (p. 58). He lets his frustration out by kicking cans
of milk at the doors in the Jewish neighbourhood. Freedom and adventure associated
with open space and nature are often associated in Opatoshu’s world with erotic
desire. In a park at sunset Sam has a date with Mrs Rich’s daughter Polly, which
inevitably leads to a violent confrontation with her Italian boyfriend Alek. Their
fight ends in Sam’s defeat because, despite his rebellious inclinations, he is still ‘too
Jewish’ and does not carry a knife. Wounded by the Italian, Sam realizes that he
has reached an invisible limit and retreats to the familiar Jewish territory. He gives
in to the petty-bourgeois norms and customs of the ‘ghetto’. Opatoshu sarcastically
concludes the novella with a travesty of a happy ending in a prospective marriage.
Sam is safely installed in a new position with his old employer, Mrs Rich:
Two years later. Sam is working for Mrs Rich as earlier. [...] Polly ran away with
Alek, came back by herself and is now singing in moving pictures. Mrs Rich is
getting fatter from day to day, has fights with Sam, makes it up right away, and
plans to marry him immediately after her husband’s death. (p. 107)
Hibru
The borders of the Lower East Side ‘ghetto’, which turned out to be insurmountable
for Sam, were expanded in Hibru,7 Opatoshu’s first full-size novel about contem
porary American Jewish life. Unlike the lower-class and underworld milieus
that Opatoshu explored in his early works, the characters of this novel belong to
the Jewish intelligentsia and middle classes. Here Opatoshu addresses the issues of
cultural continuity and transformation of yidishkayt in America. At the heart of the
problem, as he sees it, is the low social prestige and material poverty of the Jewish
educator, something that he probably experienced himself during his brief stint as
a Hebrew school teacher soon after his arrival in America. In this novel Opatoshu
uses his favourite device of juxtaposing two contrasting male characters: the bitter,
frustrated, introvert, and eventually self-destructive litvak Fridkin, and the more
optimistic and activist Grin, a Yiddish poet who believes that the Hebrew schools
system can be reformed by introducing Yiddish as an intergenerational cultural
link between Americanized children and their East European parents. In his view,
this will liberate Jewish education from being dominated by sheymes — obsolete
old religious books which are irrelevant for contemporary life.8 But even this plan
of revival is contingent on continuous immigration, without which Yiddish in
America would die. The young Jewish intellectuals in Hibru try to square the circle
between an idealistic image of the old country yidishkayt and the modern American
reality.
To succeed in America one has to adapt to its ways, as is exemplified by two men
who, despite their ideological antagonism, equally represent the transformation
of Jews in America. Mr Shults, the president of the religious congregation which
runs the Hebrew school, immigrated at the age of eighteen with a ‘bunch of
Hebrew manuscripts’ and a dream to become a poet, but had to become a peddler
instead. The key to his success was a new way of conducting business: he started
manufacturing cheap linen trousers which he distributed all over New York, to the
places ‘where Slavs and Italians were working’ (p. 90). The territorial expansion of
his business outside the Jewish area was followed by an inward turn to yidishkayt:
when the business was already taking care of itself, Shults began working on a
little share in the world to come. He bought the synagogue Mahazike Torah,
where he was the president, opened a Talmud-Torah, got engaged in communal
affairs, and befriended some Torah scholars in the hope that his home would
become a ‘council of wise men’. (p. 90)
His socialist adversary is the young union activist Rabinovitsh, who organized
a pointless strike among the Hebrew school teachers which ruined Fridkin, but
at the same time invested a thousand dollars in inkubeytors which are expected to
produce more than one hundred chicken a week (p. 61). He lures four Hebrew
school teachers into a union with a promise to get them a salary raise; the fifth
teacher, the anti-socialist Hebrew writer Kruze, refuses to join and argues that one
has to teach Dostoevsky’s novel Besy (The Possessed) in schools to counter socialist
propaganda (p. 68). Despite their sharp ideological difference, both men are equally
eager to advance in the new society, using the appeal to the values yidishkayt and
social justice merely as a stepping-stone to their personal success. These new Jewish
capitalists and socialists who control Hebrew schools are equally destructive for the
Jewish future, regardless of the educational method and the language of instruction,
be it Hebrew, English, or Yiddish.
Whereas in Fun Nyu-yorker geto the city was experienced at the ground level by a
struggling and confused teenager with a limited cultural and intellectual horizon,
New York in Hibru is portrayed with a higher degree of conceptual generalization.
Travelling in an elevated train, Grin and his girlfriend Bessi observe the busy street
life from above:
The car went downhill and cut with a ringing bell into a dirty street, with
endless rows of pushcarts on both sides. Dishevelled Italian women in kerchiefs
looking like Jewish women from a small shtetl, surrounded with little Italian
kids holding their clothes, were walking from one pushcart to another,
haggling, waving their hands, snatching bargains. Their deafening screaming
was rising above their heads, scratching throats. Red threads of corals, long
orange earrings, screaming silk dresses, Persian shawls, groups of women with
children around each steps, their buzzing, pushcarts with greenery which only
Italians eat, barrels with garbage on every step — all this testified that the street
is a shtetl in its own right in the big city of New York. (pp. 86–87)
Ref lecting on the picture as it unfolds before their eyes, Grin asks Bessi: ‘How
do you like the Italian shtetl?’ (p. 87). In his view, New York does not exist as
a uniform city: ‘there are only shtetlekh: Galician, Hungarian, Slavic, Chinese’.
Surprised, Bessi asks: ‘And Fifth Avenue?’ — to which Grin responds: ‘What, do
you really mean that Fifth Avenue has anything to do with America? Trust me,
the Jewish Hester Street is more American inside than Fifth Avenue’ (p. 87). The
idea that immigrants, regardless of their place of origin, represent the ‘true’ spirit
of America better than ‘real’ Americans was popular with some American Yiddish
writers of the 1920s and 1930s.9
The dingy saloons which in Fun Nyu-yorker geto served as an arena of interethnic
fighting and male rivalry give way to a bohemian Greenwich Village club called
Grine lape (Green Paw), where Grin takes Bessi on a Friday night after the family
Shabbat dinner at the house of her father, the president of a synagogue and Grin’s
employer. Located in a shabby two-storey building, the club looks like a ‘peasant’s
hut’ which is about to break under the feet of its strange-looking guests. These
types are ‘rarely seen in the streets of New York’ (p. 96) during the normal day
hours:
Sloppily dressed men whose faces look troubled even when they laugh; women,
dressed in half-masculine clothes, with cropped haircuts, cigarettes in their
mouths, at the first glance made an impression of cross-dressed boys. It seemed
as if all these people sleep during the day, and at night, when the law falls asleep
together with its law-abiding children, they crawl out of their bedrooms, glide
stealthily around the walls of the tenement houses and hurry in the viledzh. (p. 96)
Despite the cosmopolitan and multi-ethnic look of the club crowd, most of its
clientele is Jewish. The owner wears a Hungarian ethnic dress, which is described as
a kapote with a wide green belt, while his wife looks like a Spanish street singer, and
yet both of them are f luent in Yiddish. Grin’s and Bessi’s appearance in the main
room is greeted with ‘The Yanks Are Coming’ sung by a group of young Jewish
men and women to the tune of the popular Yiddish song ‘Mai ko mashma lon der
regn’ (What’s the meaning of the rainstorm?),10 and a couple of Gentiles happily
sings along. One corner is occupied by the editorial board of the weekly magazine
Getsndiner (The Pagan).11 Among other guests whom Grin introduces to Bessi are
Shloyme Mander, ‘the greatest Yiddish novelist’; Moyshe Khoyzek, ‘the greatest
humorist’; and Vays, ‘the greatest Yiddish critic’ (p. 99). Somewhat overwhelmed
and confused, Bessi asks: ‘is this a Jewish place?’ — to which Grin responds with
an affirmative question: ‘vi den?’ (how else?, p. 101). Later in the night Bessi meets
another friend of Grin’s, a ‘young man with a girl’s waist’ who once also was a
Hebrew teacher but has become a music critic for the prestigious English newspaper
Di tsayt (The Times — perhaps, The New York Times). He explains his move to
Bessi:
Let’s not fool ourselves, if I had not broken away in time from the East Side,
what would have become of me? A genose [party comrade — here meaning a
socialist political activist]! Like thousands of other young men who waste their
talents and careers so that a few demagogues, their representatives, could live
like aristocrats! (p. 107)
At dawn, as they leave the club, an elderly Italian man on the street empties garbage
from a barrel onto his wagon. He looks at them, shakes his head as if remembering
something, and drives away. This final image sends the reader a clear message that
the Jewish bohemia is ‘garbage’ which will be thrown onto the wagon of history
driven by the others.
If Grin and his friends are able to carve their own space in the city, his antagonist
Fridkin feels lonely and disoriented on the street where he finds himself in the midst
of the New York summer:
his watery eyes did not notice that the street on both sidewalks was black from
the multitude of people. Whole families were sitting outside, most of them in
unbuttoned shirts, heads lowered as if after a fast, and every waft of wind filled
the air with moaning as if in a steam bath. (p. 49)
Contrary to Grin, who travels across the city securely and comfortably by the
modern means of the public transportation, Fridkin can barely avoid being kicked
by a horse-driven carriage: ‘he instinctively realized that he had to move left, but,
like a stupid sheep that runs into a fire in great fear , Fridkin threw himself onto
the horses with an inhuman scream’ (p. 51). Fridkin’s anxiety about America, in
illustration of Foucault’s thesis, finds its metonymic expression in his spatial dis
orientation and dislocation in New York streets. Unlike Grin, he is unable to
perceive the city as a cohesive entity with its own internal logic. Fridkin’s incom
prehension of the urban space is part of his general mistrust of modernity in general
and Yiddish culture in particular:
Fridkin took the newspaper [with Grin’s Yiddish poems] and before he could
read even one word, replied: ‘Who doesn’t write today? If one has a cool
head, one can sit down and write something! And I would understand if it’s
in another language, at least one has to know it, but this? Who doesn’t know
zhargon?’ (pp. 58–59)
Fridkin is irritated by the Yiddish press as much as he is lost in the maze of New
York streets, while Grin is optimistic about the future of Yiddish as he is excited
about the multiethnic composition of the city: ‘He even had a plan how to make
Yiddish into a world language. One just has to write in Yiddish a work that will
astonish the world, and Gentiles will also learn Yiddish. How simple!’ (p. 78).
In the end, however, the expansion of Yiddish culture and yidishkayt in America
is no more than an illusion. New York, as a synecdoche for America, confronts Grin
and his colleagues as a dark, inhuman, and dangerous vision prefiguring the iconic
photographic and film noir images of the later age:
They entered Canal Street. It was already getting dark. Two grey strips of
light cut through the darkness, marking two blurry figures, one taller than the
other, and a pale round light, like a matt moon, was looking from the giant
Woolworth building as if through a dark veil [...] illuminating the steel rails of
the suspension bridge, which looked from afar like giant harps [...] Everyone
stopped, looking at the grey strips of light, at the giant harps, [...] at pale f lames
of light that was hovering over Canal Street like a hidden eye of god of steel
and iron. (p. 137)
Hibru is equally pessimistic about the ability of capitalist enterprise, socialist politics,
or bohemian experimentation to create and maintain a space for yidishkayt in
America. Financial success leads to an isolated way of life within the confines of a
private house; leftist politics is ultimately destructive for culture because it serves
the petty ambitions of its leaders, while Jewish attempts at imitating decadence and
the avant-garde are futile and simply ridiculous. Grin’s notion of New York as an
agglomeration of ethnic shtetlekh might work for the Italians, who often serve as
‘the other’ in relation to Jews in Opatoshu’s novels, but not for Jews. The Italian
men and women, such as Alek in Fun Nyu-yorker geto, the garbage man and the
women on the market street in Hibru, are able to retain their ethnic identity in
America, in both character and appearance, by engaging with the environment,
which also enables them to secure a physical space of their own in the city. Jews,
on the contrary, are only too eager to cross religious and cultural boundaries in
order to adjust to the Gentile ways. They easily abandon their languages, Yiddish
and Hebrew, adopt new ideology, dress according to the latest American fashion,
and even give up their masculinity.
In one of the final episodes we see Grin walking absent-mindedly through streets
while the lightly dressed Italians clear away the snow:
Without seeing anything around him, Grin was walking fast, as if he had to
be somewhere at a certain time, thinking that to write Yiddish in New York
is the same as to sit alone in an old-age home and believe that if people lived
according to the teaching of Fourier there would be no more troubles in the
world. [...] His writer colleagues, even the most virtuous among them, the
founders of ‘Yiddishism’, those who always have the eternity on their minds,
write, all without an exception, the worst Yiddish, and their children, as if to
spite them, don’t speak any Yiddish at all. (p. 265)
This revelation finally liberates Grin from his captivity to the old world, making
him aware of the surroundings. He realizes that New York speaks its own language,
which he cannot comprehend:
He was walking aimlessly from one street to the next, observing everything as
if he came only yesterday as a griner, reading the signboards, admiring the rows
of houses that were bursting upwards. For the first time in many years did he
feel the rhythm of the boisterous New York, unable to understand how people
could live in the country, in the woods, where everything is still and frozen.
[...] He was certain that the rows of giants bursting to the clouds were talking
in their own language. This language was foreign to him, and although he
could not understand anything, he felt that his place was here, in this turmoil,
and he had to merge with the two streams of people on both sides of the street.
(p. 269)
In this episode Grin — who becomes a symbolic figure representing the griner
immigrant — dissolves in New York, driven by desire to abandon his old exilic self
with its language (presumably, Yiddish) and to learn the new language of the city,
which nevertheless remains foreign to him. His reterritorialization in the modern
metropolis comes at the price of losing his old identity.
Di tentserin (Arum grend-strit)

Di tentserin (Arum grend-strit) was Opatoshu’s last, most ambitious, but arguably not
the most successful, American novel. Rather unusually, it was first published in
Kharkov in 1929, two years after Opatoshu’s visit to the Soviet Union, and one
year later republished, in a somewhat extended version, in Vilna by Boris Kletskin

as volume xi of Opatoshu’s collected works.12 The novel begins on the third-class
deck of the transatlantic ship symbolically named Faterland (Fatherland) that brings
a group of Jewish immigrants from Poland to America in the early twentieth
century. This group forms a diverse and representative sample of the pre-First
World War Jewish immigration: predominantly male, it includes religious Jews and
freethinkers, intellectuals and ordinary workers, young and elderly, who join the
growing immigrant community ‘around Grand Street’ on the New York Lower
East Side. The novel follows the American fortunes of several protagonists who
engage, as is typical in Opatoshu’s works, in all kinds of religious, intergenerational,
ideological, and sexual conf licts. As evident from its first title, the traditional Jewish
immigrant neighbourhood of the Lower East Side serves as the central locality of
the novel, but its topography also includes the more prosperous uptown parts of the
city and its middle-class suburbs, as well as the woods of New Jersey.
The most prominent Lower East Side Jewish location, which also serves as a
parodic synecdoche of American yidishkayt, is the tshiken market, a kosher poultry
slaughterhouse located at East Third Street near the East River not far from
Williamsburg Bridge. This enclave offers an asylum for many elderly Jews who
feel estranged and alienated in America. They come here to buy a cheap chicken
and to escape from their dreary daily routine of babysitting their grandchildren
and serving their children, on whose support they depend. ‘Here in the market
they could meet with familiar people and get to feel some self-respect. They were
never tired of talking about “good old days” back home, where they have left their
soul’.13 The chicken market is owned by the ambitious and successful entrepreneur
Abe, who came to America as a poor teenager and worked his way up the capitalist
ladder. At home he worked for food at a mill, and
now he is rich, orders whole carriages of merchandise from the West, he is
an energetic young man. He married well, very well, has, thanks God, two
children and it is he who sets the price of chicken in New York. (p. 73)
Now he employs his former countrymen out of charity, but when his former boss,
the learned and once wealthy Jew named Kufelt, botches kosher slaughtering a couple
of times, Abe fires him without remorse. Abe embodies the double-sided nature
of the first-generation American Jewish capitalist: patronizing but sometimes rude
with his Yiddish-speaking employees and clients on his territory, he turns meek
and obedient when he comes to his middle-class suburban home and his English-
speaking wife, the daughter of his first American employer. This, however, does
not prevent him from cheating on her with Regina, a fiery dancer from Warsaw
who arrived with her father and other immigrants on the ship Faterland.
The Lower East Side is portrayed as a sick and decaying place. The buildings have
‘grey, crumbling bricks’ and ‘plaster peeling off the walls like sick skin’, their ‘wide
whitewashed windows look dull’ (p. 88). Above, on Williamsburg Bridge,
trains and cars are climbing over the houses, [...] sparks are f lashing in the
dirty windows across the street. From under the bridge rise the smells of rotten
cellars, fish, stale fruits, and slaughtered chicken. It is swarming with eyes,
hands, open mouths with Polish and Galician speech. (p. 88)
As in Fun Nyu-yorker getto, the Lower East Side is portrayed as one big market
place:
the day has begun on Hester Street. Hundreds of peddlers were standing on
both sidewalks with their stands and pushcarts. They were shouting at the top
of their voices to the masses of people who were moving back and forth. (p. 103)
But unlike Opatoshu’s previous New York novels, Di tentserin takes note of the
emerging workers’ movement and class struggle among Jewish immigrants. Young
Jewish workers despise the Hester Street petty trade:
All these Jews have time, they can wait for the Prophet Isaiah’s ‘last days’. In
the meantime they ask ten dollars for a little clock and sell it for one dollar,
only to keep the Jewish commerce going! ‘I hate them!’ — Fishl waved with
his both hands as if he shook off himself the entire Hester Street and walked
away. (p. 104)
But although the novel deals extensively with the issues of inequality, exploitation,
and class conf licts in the immigrant society, it is not an ideological novel. The
lack of the novel’s engagement with social reality was noted by the leading Soviet
Marxist critic Nusinov in his letter to Opatoshu: ‘you know that this is at best
an interesting material but you want to convince someone that these are real
problems’.14 In Nusinov’s view, the novel leaves the reader with no question to
ponder, no neshome-veytik (heart-ache); indeed, it remains unclear, ‘objectively, who
is your book for?’ (p. 357). Instead of ‘a piece of American life’, Opatoshu offers
the reader an eighteen-year-old portrait of the Warsaw Jewish neighbourhood of
Grzybów (p. 358; in fact, according to the subtitle of the novel, it does take place
in 1910–11). However justified Nusinov’s criticism of individual characters and
social engagement, it seems that he underestimated the novel’s value as a collective
portrait of the Jewish immigrant society in its heyday. The title of the Soviet edition
captures this aspect of the novel better than the more sensational, but arguably less
adequate, title of the Polish edition. As historians tell us, Grand Street was situated
between enclaves populated by Jewish immigrants from different parts of eastern
and southern Europe: ‘Galician Jews in a section bounded Houston to the north,
Grand Street, to the south; Romanian and Levantine Jews between Grand and
Houston, Allen and the Bowery; Russian Jews south of Grand Street’.15 Thus Grand
Street becomes not only a commercial and geographical centre of the immigrant
Jewish life, but also its spatial metonymy, offering a clue to an interpretation of the
novel in terms of the New York urban space.
Each character is identified by his or her belonging or not belonging to certain
spaces. The eccentric spiritual seeker and self-made tzaddik Reb Shabse strongly
resents the overcrowded Lower East Side and chooses to move to New Jersey
woods: ‘an oak cannot grow on Garrick Street in those narrow little cubicles (alker
lekh), there is barely enough place for a creeper (drapek). An oak needs air, space.
And when a tree grows alone, it gets bigger and lives longer’ (p. 86). His spiritual
opponent, Reb Avreml, on the contrary, sets up his small shtibl (prayer house) in
the midst of the immigrant neighbourhood. The capricious, lustful, and ambitious
tentserin Regina is eager to move out of the Lower East Side. To conquer the fresh
arrival from Warsaw, Abe takes her to a glamorous Broadway restaurant, where the
beauty of the brightly lighted place is accentuated by the falling snow and the image
of a sleigh, creating a dream-like magic effect which hints at the illusory nature
of success and happiness in New York (pp. 186–87). Eventually Abe sets her up in
a newly built comfortable apartment in the Bronx. Her female counterpart, Reb
Avreml’s daughter Dina, although raised in America, prefers to stay in the Jewish
area and serve the needy community as a social worker. Abe’s personality is split
between his genteel Americanized self, associated with his wife in a prosperous
middle-class residential area, and his Jewish business in the immigrant area.16 Abe
has two ‘opposite numbers’ in the novel who in the end outdo him both in business
and in love. Volf, his former fellow worker in Kufelt’s business in Warsaw, buys off
Abe’s slaughterhouse, while Reb Shabse’s son Pinkhes takes Regina from him. Both
men are firmly and comfortably settled in the Lower East Side Jewish network. For
Volf, the chicken market serves as the anchor in the alien and hostile city, where
he sometimes feels ‘helpless as a child’ (p. 150). After wandering for a long time
through the inhospitable streets in snow and rain he finally stops at the entrance to
the market, which he dershmekt mit der noz (smells with his nose, p. 150).
Unlike Volf, Pinkhes had a longer and more diverse American experience. Sent
by his overzealous father to a yeshiva, he left before receiving rabbinical ordination
and spent some time homeless:
Hungry and ragged, he wandered around streets and alleys, earning some
money only on rare occasions. He slept, like hundreds of others, in a park, in
a lobby. He had no equals when he could spend a night in his clothes on the
Bowery for twenty-five cents. Looking around, he realized that there is not
much difference between people, but a whole abyss separates nice clothes from
rags. (pp. 157–58)
Wandering thus in a state of spiritual and psychological turmoil and thinking that
the true way to God might lead through a sin, one Friday night he was stopped by
Dina who took him for an Italian and asked to come and light gas in her parents’
apartment, something that no Jew was allowed to do on Shabbat. When her father
Reb Averml realizes that Pinkhes is Jewish, he invites him to share their Shabbat
meal despite the fact that he had just committed a sin. Thus Pinkhes becomes
situated in the midst of both the Jewish space and Jewish life, between his father
Reb Shabse and his opponent Reb Avreml, between Dina and Regina, between
socialism and traditional yidishkayt.
The final episode of the novel, the bizarre suicidal death of Reb Shabse under
the wheels of a demonic train, echoes the image of a free-roaming tramp killed
by the train from Sam’s dream in Fun Nyu-yorker geto, suggesting perhaps that any
attempt to leave the familiar territory offers only an illusion of freedom and ends in
an inevitable disaster. But while the demarcation of the American territory seems
complete, the ending leaves the future of the younger generation open: will Pinkhes
go back to Dina, who in her way continues to serve the community like her father,
or will he try to follow the track of Abe and become Regina’s lover? What will
Abe do without Regina, his wife and his business? And whom will Regina choose?
As in the previous novels, Opatoshu appears apprehensive about any possibility of
a Jewish future outside the Lower East Side, whereas those characters who chose
to stay there, such as Volf, Dina, and her father, seem to have more stable albeit
less ambitious future prospects. Following the line he chose in 1913 when he broke
away from the ‘intoxicated’ romantics associated with Ignatov’s Shriftn, Opatoshu
remained true to the ‘sober’ neo-realism of Di naye heym. Indeed, the bizarre death
of Reb Shabse can be seen as a warning against the danger of ‘intoxication’ which
is a prominent theme in Ignatov’s prose. If, as Foucault tells us, the space is the main
source of anxiety of our time, then Opatoshu’s advice is to stay within the confines
of the familiar territory.
Notes to Chapter 11
1. Ruth R. Wisse, A Little Love in Big Manhattan (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1988), p. 52.
2. Quoted in Nakhmen Mayzil, Tsurikblikn un perspektivn (Tel Aviv: Y. L. Peretz-farlag, 1962),
p. 315.
3. Quoted ibid., p. 318.
4. Michel Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces’, <http://www.foucault.info/documents/heteroTopia/
foucault.heteroTopia.en.html> [accessed 13 November 2012].
5. Dos sholem-aleykhem-bukh, ed. by I. D. Berkowitz (New York: YKUF, 1958), p. 255.
6. Yoysef Opatoshu, Fun nyu-yorker geto, Gezamlte verk fun Y. Opatoshu, ii (Vilna: Kletskin, 1929),
p. 19. All further references to this novel are from this edition.
7. First published in Naye velt (1919) under the title Lerer; appeared in book form as Hibru (New
York, 1920) and Farloyrene mentshn (vol. iii of Opatoshu’s collected works, Berlin, 1922)
8. Yoysef Opatoshu, Hibru (New York: Mayzel, 1920), p. 204. All further references to this novel
are from this edition.
9. The most comprehensive artistic treatment of this idea was in the novel Vest-sayd by Binyomin
Demblin (1937), which has practically no Jewish character. Set in the Riverside Park on New
York’s Upper West Side, this novel portrays a community of homeless immigrants from various
countries struggling for survival during the Great Depression.
10. A poem by Avrom Reisen.
11. On this magazine and Opatoshu’s relations with it see Chapter 12.
12. See Chapter 10.
13. Joseph Opatoshu, Di tentserin (Arum grend-strit), Gezamlte verk fun Y. Opatoshu, xi (Vilna:
B. Kletskin, 1930), p. 121. Further page references to this novel are from this edition.
14. Briv fun yidishe sovetishe shraybers, ed. by E. Lifschutz and M. Altshuler ( Jerusalem, 1990), p. 357.
Further page references to this letter are from this edition.
15. Annie Polland and Daniel Soyer, Emerging Metropolis: New York Jews in the Age of Immigration,
1840–1920 (New York: New York University Press, 2012), p. 112.
16. Abe’s situation was common for many successful Jewish entrepreneurs who moved out from
the Lower East Side to more comfortable areas uptown, the Bronx or Brooklyn, but kept their
businesses in the old neighbourhood. See ibid., pp. 130–31.
Ch a p t e r 12
v
Opatoshu’s Eroticism,
American Obscenity
Josh Lambert
The relatively scanty English-language criticism that treated the literary works of
Joseph Opatoshu during the first prolific decade of his career tended to place the
representation of sex at the centre of his literary project. Writing in the prestigious
Cambridge History of American Literature in 1921, Nathaniel Buchwald devoted exactly
two sentences to Opatoshu, remarking that he ‘is not a traditional ghetto writer, for
erotic passion is his main subject’, and highlighting the recently published historical
novel In poylishe velder (In Polish Woods) as ‘less open to objections on the part of
the conservative critic’ than those erotically focused ghetto stories.1 A few years
later, the critic and Yiddish translator Isaac Goldberg remarked in an aside, in a brief
English-language survey of modern Yiddish literature, that in Opatoshu’s writing
sex ‘blossom[s] as an exotic’.2
Goldberg’s perspective on Opatoshu’s work is especially worth attending to if
we are concerned with Opatoshu’s developing reputation among English-speakers
in the United States, because Goldberg was the pre-eminent translator of Yiddish
literature in America at that time, and he himself would finally render In poylishe
velder into English, for the Jewish Publication Society of America, in 1938. There
were certainly many other ways to understand Opatoshu’s literary project, even
in 1921, than to suggest that ‘erotic passion is his main subject’. Why, then, did
Buchwald and Goldberg find Opatoshu’s representation of sex not only potentially
offensive to an imagined ‘conservative critic’, but also worth emphasizing, above all
else, in their own brief critical responses?
This essay sketches the perception that obtained during the first decade of
Opatoshu’s career that Yiddish writers in America could treat sex more frankly
than their counterparts writing in English, and suggests that this perception helps
to explain why Buchwald and Goldberg mentioned Opatoshu’s representation of
‘erotic passion’. The anti-obscenity activities of the New York Society for the Sup
pression of Vice are, in this sense, a crucial context in which to understand the first
period of Opatoshu’s career. Examining this formative stage in the career of a major
Yiddish writer illuminates a rather neglected period in the early development and
reception of Yiddish modernism in the United States, and as such Opatoshu and his
English-language reception illustrate what Anita Norich has called the ‘bilingual,
Opatoshu’s Eroticism, American Obscenity 173
multivalent’ character of Jewish culture in America.3 This study of Opatoshu and his
publishers also expands upon on the work of Cristanne Miller — who has argued
in a study of experimentalist English-language New York poetry of the period
that ‘the Jews of New York [...] [helped] to make the modernist literary revolution
possible through their own writing and through publishing and circulating the
work of experimentalist writers’ — by demonstrating the contributions of Yiddish-
speaking writers and publishers to the development of modernism in the United
States.4
* * * * *
The idea raised by Buchwald’s remarks in the Cambridge History of American Literature
was developed at greater length by Charles Madison, writing in The Freeman, in
1923. Madison begins his three-page essay on Opatoshu with the assertion that ‘when
depicting the Jews of his native Poland [Opatoshu’s] attitude is quite different from
the one he assumes when writing of the Jews of New York’. While he represents
Polish Jews, ‘be they rabbis or thieves [...] with romantic sympathy’, Opatoshu’s
portraits of immigrants, Madison asserts, emphasize ‘the moral degeneracy that has
overtaken the New York Ghetto’. This attitude, Madison goes on to argue, ‘has
perturbed the f low of artistic creation’ in Opatoshu’s New York stories, whereas
in works like In poylishe velder ‘nothing hindered him’ or his artistry.5 While there
is certainly some merit to Madison’s observation — Opatoshu’s early stories set in
America are strikingly bleak, and there does seem to be more sympathy for some of
the Polish characters than for their American counterparts — the remark overstates
the distinction between Opatoshu’s stories set in America and those set in Poland,
at least in terms of Opatoshu’s attention to ‘erotic passion’ or, more specifically, to
illicit sexual behaviour.
It could be argued, on the contrary, that one of the most consistent themes to
which Opatoshu returned in his first decade of literary production is that of sexual
betrayal and its consequences, whether that betrayal takes place between immigrants
in New York, as in the story ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ (Morris and his Son Philip);
between a rich old maskil and his young bride in Kotsk, in a section of In poylishe
velder; or, most stunningly, in the story ‘Der mishpet’ (The Trial), between male
and female storks living at the intersection of the Joldevke and Vistula rivers. While
Madison’s remark that Opatoshu represents Polish Jews ‘with romantic sympathy’
accurately describes the author’s sympathetic treatment of Zanvl in Roman fun a
ferd-ganev (Romance of a Horse Thief ), that ‘romantic sympathy’ does not prevent
Opatoshu from describing Zanvl’s visit to a brothel and his enjoyment of a night
with a prostitute. As in Opatoshu’s other fictions of the period, Roman fun a ferd-
ganev makes clear that Zanvl’s sexual experience with the prostitute functions
within a narrative of sexual yearning and betrayal: it is Zanvl’s attempt to take
private revenge on Rachel, the respectable woman for whom he lusts, who, a few
chapters earlier, has kicked him out of her bedroom and dismissed him as a thief.
After leaving the brothel, he fantasizes about bringing the prostitute ‘home with
him, promenad[ing] her through the streets. [...] And when he met Rachel, she
would stare in disbelief, while he, with perfect nonchalance, would pass her by,
174 Josh Lambert
conversing with his lady’. The emphasis in Zanvl’s thoughts and daydreams is, of
course, on the effect his behaviour will have on Rachel, the woman for whom he
pines and who has rejected him. He remains focused on Rachel even when, feeling
regret, he worries that he has contracted a venereal disease, ‘the most horrible
disease of all [...] the clap’. He imagines himself abandoned by friends, ‘growing
weaker day by day until he could no longer go out into the street. And all because
of Rachel, that scrawny pious girl!’.6 Whether in his Poland-based stories or in the
American ones, then, the young Opatoshu did not shy away from placing conf licts
of sexual infidelity at the centre of his narratives.7
While this is hardly the only noteworthy feature of Opatoshu’s early fiction, it
seems to have been a significant factor in what made his work attractive to American
literary figures who were working primarily with English, but also keeping their
eyes on developments in contemporary Yiddish literary culture. Opatoshu began
publishing in New York at a time when the English-language American publishing
industry had mostly come to accept, and even to welcome, the strictures that
had been placed on it by Anthony Comstock and the New York Society for the
Suppression of Vice (NYSSV), and which had been written into law in the Supreme
Court decisions Swearingen v. Kansas and Rosen v. New York in the 1890s.8 As the
historian Paul Boyer explains, characterizing the years between 1907 and 1916, ‘on
the rare occasion when a book issued by a known publisher for open circulation did
transgress the code, the vice societies usually experienced little trouble in suppressing
it’.9 In late 1915, for one example, the 23-year-old f ledgling publisher Alfred A.
Knopf was hauled into court by Comstock’s successor at the NYSSV, John Sumner,
for publishing a translation of a Polish novel. Knopf agreed to withdraw Stanisław
Przybyszewski’s Homo Sapiens from circulation, and even melted down its printing
plates, after Sumner characterized it as ‘indecent’. (It is mentioned explicitly in one
of Opatoshu’s fictions of this period, A roman fun a vald-meydl.) A few months later,
Sumner convinced the publisher of the well-known American novelist Theodore
Dreiser’s most recent book, The ‘Genius’, to stop selling and distributing that novel.
Even though the Authors’ League of America and other prominent literary figures
sided with Dreiser, the novel remained ‘effectively suppressed until well into the
1920s’.10 Other examples from the period abound.
In this atmosphere, those who could read both Yiddish and English in America
realized that the former was much less prone to governmental or para-governmental
attacks than the latter. In a 1918 essay in The Bookman, the translator Isaac Goldberg
noted that
the theme of sex [...] is treated by Yiddish writers with far greater freedom than
would be permitted to their American confrères. [...] The Yiddish public will
listen to and read, without hiding it, much of what the American public would
affect not to care for, only to read it surreptitiously.
The difference in standards was not just a matter of audience predilections, as
Goldberg implies with his phrasing here, but — as he knew very well from his
interactions with publishers — it was a result of the legal enforcement of literary
standards by para-governmental groups like the NYSSV. While it is not true, as
has been claimed, that ‘the First Amendment assured the [Yiddish] press freedom
from censorship’ — the First Amendment did little to protect sexual representations
in any language in the United States until somewhat later — the circulation of a
text in Yiddish in America did insulate it from the attention of anti-vice groups,
the vast majority of whose members could not read Yiddish. Bilingual readers of
English and Yiddish tended to be radicals or progressives, like Goldberg, and from
their perspective it was a shame that Americans who could not read Yiddish were
being denied access to unbowdlerized editions of works like Sholem Asch’s Motke
ganev (Motke the Thief ).11 Bridging this gap in representational standards — that is,
presenting the frank representations of sexuality found in modern Yiddish literature
to American readers of English — was a significant part of the intentions of the two
American magazines that translated Opatoshu’s work in the 1910s, or at the very
least it was an issue at the forefront of their editors’ minds.
* * * * *
Consider, for example, East & West, a monthly magazine that appeared rather
brief ly, between April 1915 and April 1916, and was dedicated entirely to the
translation of Yiddish literature, and included a translation of Opatoshu’s story ‘Der
mishpet’ (‘The Trial’) in October 1915. Edited by Hillel Rogoff and headquartered
at the Forward Building, the magazine unambiguously and forthrightly aimed to
display Yiddish literature as sophisticated and eminently respectable. The editorial
of the first issue notes proudly that ‘New York [is] Becoming the Athens of Yiddish
Literature’ because ‘the best literary talents of the Russian pale’ have begun to
contribute to New York-based Yiddish publications. ‘It will be the aim of East &
West’, the editorial continues, ‘to present these men to the American public, to
display their talent, art, and genius’.12
Given these high-minded goals, it is striking that it only took a few months
before the representation of sex in the magazine’s pages arose as a controversial
issue. A regular feature in the magazine was the inclusion of an essay by a (usually
non-Jewish) literary scholar who would ref lect upon the translated contents of the
issue. (The first issue, for example, included a response from John Erskine, the
well-known Columbia English professor.) The August 1915 issue’s responder was
Professor T. D. O’Bolger of the University of Pennsylvania, and the text to which
he responded was Sholem Asch’s play Jephthah’s Daughter. While praising much of
the play, and acknowledging the absurdity of sexual matters not being discussed
openly in American art and journalism, O’Bolger nonetheless criticized Asch for
overemphasizing sex. He objected that ‘sex passion is not all of life, or ninety-nine
per cent of it, as Mr. Asch in “Jephthah’s Daughter” would seem to imply and
urge’. O’Bolger also regards the ‘vulgarity of speech and phrase’ in Asch’s play as
unnecessary, and closes by declaring that ‘Art is not the police news’, relating Asch’s
sensationalism to the massively popular, cheap, sensational American periodicals of
the era like the National Police Gazette.13
Examining Isabel Shostac’s translation of Asch’s play today, it is difficult to
determine what animated O’Bolger’s critique. An evocative, decadent fable, based
on the biblical narrative from Judges 11 — but in which the deity Moloch appears as
‘a snow white animal in the likeness of a human being overgrown with white dog-
176 Josh Lambert
hair, one eye in his forehead’ — the play includes such lines of dialogue as ‘My body
gleams like dew drops in the morning son’ and ‘Your bare arms, your naked feet, all
will know that you are ripe for your marriage day’.14 The words ‘bastard’, ‘naked’,
‘seduce’, and ‘desire’ appear, but no major examples of what O’Bolger characterized
as ‘vulgarity of speech and phrase’. Clearly the supernatural, fabulist, and abstract
qualities of the play did little to assuage O’Bolger’s concern that it might titillate or
deprave its readers.
What bears emphasizing here, more than the prudishness or incoherence of
O’Bolger’s critique — which was hardly extraordinary for an American literary
critic of the era, as mentioned earlier — is the way in which Rogoff and other
editors responsible for East & West responded to it. In a note about O’Bolger’s essay,
which oddly appeared a month before the essay itself, the editors of East & West
remarked that O’Bolger ‘is not satisfied that an artist has the right to devote himself
to the sex problem to such an extent’ as Asch does, framing the discussion in terms
of ‘rights’ (and, relevantly, laws: under the law of that time, an artist certainly did
not have unlimited legal rights to represent ‘the sex problem’). The editorial goes
on to suggest, though without overtly contradicting O’Bolger (which may have
seemed rude, given that he had been invited to contribute to the magazine), that
Asch’s ‘drama is certainly a piece of true art [...] it ranks amongst [his] very best
productions [...] in the poetic drama’.15 With these remarks, the magazine’s editors
asserted the prerogative of Yiddish writers to represent sex centrally and perhaps
explicitly in their work. A much stronger statement of their feelings on this issue
came six months later, when the February 1916 issue of the magazine was dedicated,
almost in its entirety, to a translation of Asch’s more widely known, indeed
infamous play, Got fun nekome (The God of Vengeance).16 This certainly would not
have been undertaken if the magazine’s editors had been chastened by O’Bolger’s
commentary, as the latter play features considerably more sexually explicit scenes
than Jephthah’s Daughter, especially a notorious one that takes place between
two women, and which occurs in a recognizable and somewhat naturalistically
rendered setting of a contemporary brothel. The play had been controversial, both
in the Yiddish press and in the American Hebrew, when it was staged in Yiddish
in the United States less than a decade earlier, so certainly no one at East & West
would have been labouring under any misapprehension that it would be any more
acceptable than Jephthah’s Daughter to a critic, like O’Bolger, who was wary of frank
representations of sexuality.17
The Opatoshu story that the magazine published, and which appeared just two
months after O’Bolger’s critique of Asch, can be read as an earlier refusal by the
magazine’s editors to follow the critic’s demand to avoid consideration of ‘sex
passion’. The story centres on a boy named Zelig, the youngest son of a fisherman,
who ‘grew in the woods like a wild goat’, fearing Wanda, the ‘queen of the Vistula’
(who makes an appearance in many of Opatoshu’s stories set in Poland), and
fascinated by a local girl, Rachel.18 Zelig gets the idea of replacing a stork egg with
a goose egg, so that ‘it would hatch out a half-stork, half-goose’. In response, Rachel
tells Zelig where she has been told babies come from, that is, that ‘a stork brings
the babies in a little basket’ (p. 205), and thus connects Zelig’s strange scheme,
metaphorically, with the idea of human reproduction. Confusion and tragedy ensue
from what might seem like a harmless prank: the story shifts to the point of view of
the male and female storks when ‘a little gosling’ appears out of one of the eggs in
their nest. The male stork responds furiously: he ‘felt that all in him was trembling,
and like a cuckold husband he threw himself at his mate, pecking her feathers with
his beak’ (p. 206). The aggrieved male informs the f lock of what the narrator refers
to as her ‘sin’, and as the story reaches its climax, the other storks pass judgment on
the seemingly adulterous female, and submit her to capital punishment by way of
group torture: ‘great long necks with open beaks f lew at her from all sides, feathers
whirled in the air, and the bird was torn to pieces’ (p. 206). After watching this
happen, Rachel and Zelig — Rachel knowing ‘that she and Zelig have been guilty
for everything’ — get into a boat to head home. A storm whips up and first Rachel
and then Zelig fall into the Vistula, where their death by drowning is represented as
their being captured by Wanda, with her ‘watery hair [...] enfold[ing] him’ (p. 207).
While this odd story may not be nearly as shocking as Got fun nekome, it does
undeniably centre on ‘erotic passion’ and, particularly, on a perceived sexual betrayal,
if not in humans then in animals whose emotions and behaviours are rendered as
distinctly human, or human-like: the male stork is compared, as mentioned, to ‘a
cuckold husband’, and the storks to whom he brings evidence of his wife’s betrayal
are likened to ‘two prominent citizens’ (p. 207).19 At stake in this story are precisely
the passions and judgments that sex evokes in humans. Clearly, notwithstanding
their desire to present Yiddish literature to American readers as entirely artistically
respectable, the editors of East & West were also unwilling to conform to the
puritanism, as voiced by O’Bolger, that was then common in American letters.
* * * * *
That same story, ‘Der mishpet’, was retranslated and republished, just a few months
later, in the inaugural issue of a Greenwich Village bohemian ‘little magazine’
called The Pagan. (The only surviving copies of this magazine can be found on
microfilm at the New York Public Library. The film contains an unfortunately
incomplete run that begins midway through Opatoshu’s story, and without an issue
table of contents, which is why some of the details about The Pagan remain sketchy,
including the title under which ‘Der mishpet’ ran in its pages.)20 During its six-year
run, The Pagan would go on to print at least two other translations of Opatoshu’s
work, including two excerpts from Roman fun a ferd-ganev, and, in November
1917, under the title ‘New World Idyll’, a translation of ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’
(‘Morris and His Son Philip’), which had originally appeared in Shriftn in 1913. An
analysis of this latter story, and of its reception in the magazine in which it appeared
in translation, offers another indicator of what made Opatoshu’s fiction attractive
within American literary circles of the time.21
‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ describes the sordid relations between a group of people
living in close proximity in an immigrant neighbourhood. The titular father,
Morris, is a drunk, widowed street singer, formerly a vaudeville actor, who has
been romancing his landlady, Rebecca, though she is already married. The affair is
that much more distasteful because the landlady’s husband is blind, and she deceives
178 Josh Lambert
him brazenly. She and Morris carry on an affair right under his nose. Hoping to
be helpful, Morris’s 12-year-old son, Philip, informs the blind man about the affair,
and the latter is haunted by this betrayal, tormented by nightmares in which Morris
and Rebecca strangle him; he fears, not without reason, that they hide in corners of
his room, or under his bed, to torture him and poison him. Rebecca and Morris do
not constrain their behaviour for their children’s sakes: Philip reports to his 11-year-
old neighbour Sylvie, the blind man’s daughter and Rebecca’s stepdaughter, that
‘once I woke up in the night [...] Rebecca was lying next to Papa, and was kissing
him’.22 Rebecca, who married the blind man for his money, spits in his face and
f launts her infidelity, finally stealing her husband’s last bit of cash and running off
with Morris, who abandons his own son with no provision for his care. It is a brutal,
if not entirely unusual, tale of both spousal and parental infidelity.
Though grim, and certainly focused both on ‘sexual passion’ and on betrayal,
Opatoshu’s story was not, in fact, extraordinary in the frankness of its plot events or
its language, at least not in a Yiddish context. Contrary to Buchwald’s implication in
the Cambridge History of American Literature, it was not by then terribly untraditional
to focus on erotic passion in a representation of proletarian Jews, whether in Europe
or America. Asch’s Got fun nekome had already by then been a major sensation,
and David Pinski’s play Yankl der shmid (Yankl the Blacksmith) had depicted a
womanizer struggling to stay faithful to his wife while tempted by a former lover.
The most transgressive taboo words that appear in Opatoshu’s original Yiddish
story are, fittingly, English ones — specifically the words ‘damn’ and ‘bastard’,
transliterated into the Yiddish alphabet23 — and these words had already appeared,
a decade earlier, in Abraham Cahan’s Yiddish-language serialization of Yankl der
Yankee in the Arbeter Tseytung back in 1895–96.24
There is reason to suspect that it was precisely this quality of Opatoshu’s fiction
— that it presented human relationships with brutal honesty, but without insisting
upon the representation or discussion of sex in the frank anatomical detail or
through the use of taboo language that was typical of the most rebellious Yiddish
and Anglo-American authors of the day — that made it attractive to the editor
of The Pagan, Joseph Kling. Kling, like other Greenwich Village editors, was
motivated to found the magazine in part by an objection to American obscenity law
and a desire to f lout it. As Victoria Kingham points out in a study of The Pagan, the
first extant issue of the magazine includes a dig at the ‘Comstock-gang’.25 Another
early issue recommends the work of Theodore Dreiser, whose novel The ‘Genius’
was, as mentioned above, at that moment being suppressed by the NYSSV. (Kling
noted, ‘I understand that they’re trying to suppress Dreiser’s “Genius” because of
its “lewdness and profanity”’).26 Dreiser himself later contributed a short essay to
The Pagan, exhorting his bohemian readers ‘to be ready to abandon at a moment’s
notice the apparent teachings of the ages, and to step out free and willing to accept
new and radically different conditions’.27 The magazine supported birth control
activists, too, against what it derided as the ‘Comstock-hound’ — it included a
statement and plea for donations from the renowned birth control activist Margaret
Sanger — though Kling’s typical pose was of ambivalence rather than advocacy.28
‘To keep a pubescent boy or girl ignorant of sex-matters’, he remarked in one of his
many editorial asides, ‘is to expose them to the danger of self-ruin. | Instruct them
and you defile all that is beautiful in their dream-ideal of love [...] | Another of
life’s choice of evils’.29 Still, the magazine erred on the side of instruction, including
in its pages advertisements for books like August Forel’s The Sexual Question and
Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia-Sexualis, and, as Kingham points out, a
striking number of illustrations of nude women.30 This was a publication interested
in pushing the boundaries of sexual representation imposed by American law, and
it did so with self-conscious and explicitly progressive and artistic intentions.
The Pagan shared this orientation, as well as its general editorial mix of Anglo-
American and translated European poetry, fiction, essays, letters, and scattered
aphorisms, more or less in common with other, better-remembered American little
magazines of the late 1910s and 1920s, such as The Masses and The Little Review. The
typicality of The Pagan is, indeed, emphasized in a fictional portrait of Kling that
Opatoshu included in his novel, Hibru (Hebrew), published in 1920. In the scene, a
habitué of a Greenwich Village club called the Green Paw brings a young woman
there for the first time. As she gets herself situated, she asks: ‘And who is that sitting
on the mattress?’. Her date responds:
‘That’s the editor of The Pagan.’
‘Of what?’
‘It’s a monthly journal, called The Pagan.’
‘What is he, an Indian?’
‘What gave you that idea?’ [...]
‘I don’t know, Indians are pagans.’ [...]
‘No, he’s a Jew — we Jews deal with everything.’31
What is most interesting about The Pagan, in this account, is that though the
magazine is edited by a Yiddish-speaking Jew, it publishes in English and handles a
wide range of subjects — for example, Kling called it ‘A Magazine for Eudaemonists’,
proclaiming a connection to a classic Greek philosophical tradition — in much
the way that other avant-garde magazines of the day, with no structuring Jewish
connection, would. Which goes to show, for Opatoshu’s characters at least, that ‘we
Jews deal with everything’.
From an American perspective, on the other hand, what stands out about The
Pagan is its unusual commitment to the translation of Yiddish literature. For while
Kling published fiction and poetry translated from other European languages, he
filled his pages with translations of works by Sholem Asch, Sholem Aleichem,
Yitskhok Leybush Peretz, Mani Leib, and Moshe Nadir. Kling took seriously
his commitment to publishing and advocating for Jewish literature, and even to
articulating theories of Jewish creativity (even if Kingham is correct to note that ‘it
would be wrong to describe The Pagan as a “Jewish” magazine’).32 In one editorial
aside, Kling chided H. L. Mencken for factual errors in an essay of Mencken’s
referring to Peretz — demonstrating Kling’s sense of protectiveness and ownership
over the perception of modern Yiddish literature in English.33 Having said all that,
Kling’s editorial choices in selecting Yiddish material to translate tended to align
with his general tastes, which ran to cynicism and sordidness as well as to f lights
of lyricism. For example, when deciding what to print of Sholem Asch’s work, he
180 Josh Lambert
selected ‘Abandoned’, a short tale about a thief whose wife runs off and leaves him
with an infant, and who has to decide whether or not to abandon the child to die.
Kling’s choice of publishing Opatoshu’s ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ makes sense
in this context, as it, too, is a brutally honest representation of dissolute, unethical
people. In fact the clearest indicator of what attracted Kling to this particular
Opatoshu story is another story, written by Kling himself and published in the
February 1918 issue of The Pagan, which Kling titled ‘A Greenwich-Village Idyll’,
as if to demonstrate concretely that the story had been inspired by Opatoshu’s,
which Kling had published a few months earlier, as mentioned earlier, under the
title ‘A New World Idyll’. In both cases, the word ‘idyll’ is used, of course, with
bitterest irony: while Opatoshu’s story describes a brutal absence of morality among
immigrants, Kling’s displays the cruelty that is enabled by the bohemian ethos of
Greenwich Village: it is the story of an immigrant harridan who cons and then
abuses a vulnerable young man. The story is ostensibly told to Kling by a 22-year-
old New Yorker who meets a pretty but poor 17-year-old girl from the East Side
at a coffeehouse in Greenwich Village. The day after these two characters meet,
the young man agrees to marry the girl, after she tells him she does not believe in
‘conventional marriage’ but in ‘love only, so long as love lasted’. ‘Hell! I’ll take a
chance’, he says. In the days that follow, he discovers that her moral laxity applies
above all to her treatment of him: she cheats on him openly with her ex-boyfriends,
spend his money prof ligately, and when he complains, she calls him ‘an ignorant
philistine’. When she winds up pregnant, she insists on having an abortion rather
than bearing his child.34
The implication of Kling’s story — which, like most of the other articles
published in The Pagan, is not explicitly marked as either fiction or non-fiction
— would seem to be that as much as immigrants, like those in Opatoshu’s story,
might be alienated from conventional morality because of their dislocation, so too
could the freedoms being claimed by the bohemians of Greenwich Village lead to
serious ethical lapses. The similar titles that Kling gave to the two stories suggests
that what he found in Opatoshu’s was the precisely the kind of unf linching truth-
telling, expressed without the explicit use of the most transgressive taboo words,
that he wanted to see more of in American literature, and which he himself chose to
emulate in his own fiction. Revealingly, about a year after Kling’s story appeared,
The Pagan ran Hart Crane’s review of Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio, a
collection of stories that plumbs the dissatisfactions and moral compromises of a
small American town, just as Kling’s story had done for the Village and Opatoshu’s
for an immigrant neighbourhood.35 It is clear, then, that Opatoshu appealed to
Kling because he presented a vision of immigrant life that squared not only with
Kling’s understanding of bohemianism, but also with Dreiser’s take on urban
struggle and Anderson’s perspective on small-town America.
* * * * *
If this aspect of Opatoshu’s fiction was evidently part of what made it exciting in
New York in the 1910s, why has it not been a larger part of his subsequent reception
in English? Excerpts from Roman fun a ferd-ganev have been published regularly,
and the novella was even adapted rather loosely into a Hollywood film, but it is
interesting that those publications — in the Menorah Journal in 1928, in the Yisroel
anthology in 1933, in Saul Bellow’s Great Jewish Short Stories in 1963 — are of a
single excerpt that does not include the brothel scene discussed above. (The only
complete translation of the novella, it seems, appeared in Ruth Wisse’s A Shtetl and
Other Yiddish Novellas in 1973.)36 Likewise, the other translations of Opatoshu’s early
work that were published in East & West and The Pagan have never been reprinted,
despite being now in the public domain; at the moment, readers of English can
encounter ‘Der mishpet’ only on microfilm, while ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ was
not republished in a new English translation until 2006. Have these more disturbing,
more sexually frank stories deliberately been avoided by English translators, who
have preferred Opatoshu’s historical and religious-themed fiction?37 Is it perhaps
relevant to this aspect of Opatoshu’s American reception that in the wake of
the First World War, a few Yiddish literary works that had been translated into
English — Dovid Pinski’s short stories, in a collection called Temptations, and more
famously Asch’s Got fun nekome, when it played in translation on Broadway — were
successfully suppressed by the NYSSV, with the support of the US government?
There is evidence that figures like Goldberg, at least, became a little more
cautious in the early 1920s about what they translated from Yiddish, in response to
those pressures.38
It seems at least possible, then, that there may have been a deliberate effort among
Opatoshu’s critical admirers to downplay his early interest in ‘erotic passion’, instead
positioning him as a historical novelist whose primary appeal inhered in his detailed
treatments of religious and social history: that’s one way of reading Buchwald’s
remark, in 1921, that In poylishe velder was ‘less open to objections on the part of the
conservative critic’ than Opatoshu’s short fiction. If that is the case, it represents
quite an irony, because from a contemporary perspective there is little to lose in
being thought of as one of the writers of the 1910s who, like Asch and Pinsky, but
equally like Dreiser, Anderson, D. H. Lawrence, and James Joyce, f louted American
legal standards for sexual representation in service to their pioneering literary art.
Notes to Chapter 12
1. Nathaniel Buchwald, ‘Yiddish’, in The Cambridge History of American Literature, iii: Later National
Literature, ed. by William Peterfield Trent, John Erskine, Stuart P. Sherman, and Carl Van Doren
(New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1921), p. 606.
2. Isaac Goldberg, The Spirit of Yiddish Literature, Little Blue Book no. 732 (Girard, Ks.: Haldeman-
Julius Company, 1925), p. 43.
3. Anita Norich, Discovering Exile: Yiddish and Jewish American Culture During the Holocaust (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2007), p. 12.
4. Cristanne Miller, ‘Tongues “loosened in the melting pot”: The Poets of Others and the Lower
East Side’, modernism/modernity, 14 (2007), 455–76 (p. 472).
5. Charles Madison, ‘Joseph Opatoshu’, The Freeman, 26 December 1923, pp. 370–72.
6. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Romance of a Horse Thief ’, in A Shtetl and Other Yiddish Novellas, ed. by
Ruth Wisse (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1986), pp. 146–211 (p. 194).
7. See also Optaohu’s early novellas A roman fun a vald-meydl (Romance of a Forest Girl, 1913),
later titled Aleyn (Alone), set in Poland, in which a young woman, Sorke, runs off with a suitor,
abandoning her husband and newborn child, and Fun nyu yorker geto (From New York Ghetto,
182 Josh Lambert
1914), set in New York, in which one character, a Jewish girl, at one point runs off with an
Italian friend to the consternation of the Jewish young man who is in love with her. On these
novellas, see Mikhail Krutikov, Yiddish Fiction and the Crisis of Modernity, 1905–1914 (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2001), pp. 170–81, 146–48.
8. Paul S. Boyer, Purity in Print: The Vice Society Movement and Book Censorship in America (New
York: Scribner, 1968), pp. 23–52, and Frederick F. Schauer, The Law of Obscenity (Washington,
D.C.: The Bureau of National Affairs, 1976), pp. 19–20.
9. Boyer, Purity in Print, p. 32.
10. Ibid., p. 39.
11. Jewish American Literature: A Norton Anthology, ed. by Jules Chametzky and others (New York:
Norton, 2001), p. 115. On this period and on Goldberg’s career, see Josh Lambert, ‘Isaac
Goldberg and the Idea of Obscene Yiddish’, in Choosing Yiddish: Studies in Yiddish Literature,
Culture, and History , ed. by Lara Rabinovitch, Hannah Pressman, and Shiri Goren (Detroit:
Wayne State University Press, 2012), pp. 145–62.
12. ‘Editorial’, East & West, 1.1 (1915), 2–3 (p. 2).
13. T. D. O’Bolger, ‘Jephthah’s Daughter: A Criticism’, East & West, 1.5 (1915), 129–30.
14. Sholem Asch, ‘Jephthah’s Daughter’, trans. by Isabel Shotac, East & West, 1.4 (1915), 108–17 (p.
114, 115). For the original, see Sholem Asch, Yiftakhs tokhter, in Drames, i (Vilna: B. Kletzkin,
1911), pp. 3–62.
15. ‘Editorial’, East & West, 1.4 (1915), 94–95 (p. 95).
16. Sholem Asch, ‘The God of Vengeance’, trans. by S. P. Rudens and H. Champvert, East &
West, 1.11 (1916), 324–40. Two years later, the play would be published again, as a book, in an
‘Authorized Translation from the Yiddish with Introduction and Notes by Isaac Goldberg’;
Sholem Asch, The God of Vengeance (Boston: The Stratford Co., 1918).
17. On the US reception of Got fun nekome, see Nina Warnke, ‘Got fun nekome: The 1907
Controversy over Art and Morality’, in Sholem Asch Reconsidered , ed. by Nanette Stahl (New
Haven: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, 2004), pp. 63–77; Harley Erdman,
‘Jewish Anxiety in ‘“Days of Judgment”: Community Conf lict, Anti-Semitism, and the God of
Vengeance Obscenity Case’, Theatre Survey, 40 (1999), 51–74; Andrea Friedman, Prurient Interests:
Gender, Democracy, and Obscenity in New York City 1909–1945 (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2000), p. 108; and Warren Hoffman, The Passing Game: Queering Jewish American Culture
(Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2009), pp. 19–44.
18. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘The Judgment’, trans. by Jacob Robbins, East & West, 1.7 (1915), 204–07.
Further references to this story will be cited parenthetically in the text. For the original, see Y.
Opatoshu, Gezamelte verk, i (Vilna: B. Kletzkin, 1928), pp. 177–94.
19. A fascination with animal behavior and the analogical treatment of animals and humans was
a consistent feature of Opatoshu’s literary output, as is signalled by the title of his collection
Mentshn un khayes (New York: Kooperativer folks farlag fun internatsionaln arbiter ordn, 1938).
20. It is not clear why the story was translated again, or who translated the English version of
‘Der mishpet’ that appeared in The Pagan — though, as Kling translated much of the Yiddish
literature that appeared in The Pagan himself, he most likely translated this story, too. Even
though the only surviving copy of this later version is fragmentary, it clearly differs from the
one Jacob Robbins did for East & West.
21. The 1937 bibliography of Opatoshu’s writings diminishes the sense of Opatoshu’s early repu
tation in English by reporting only two (or perhaps three) of the five translations discussed in
this essay: the translation of ‘Der mishpet’ in East & West and ‘Chapter from a Novel’ in issues 4
and 5 of The Pagan in 1918. See Opatoshu bibliografiye (New York: Arbeter ring, 1937), p. 37. Two
other translations, early excerpts from In poylishe Velder, that go unmentioned in the bibliography
are J. Opatoshu, ‘The Cabalist (from Polish Forests)’ and ‘A Night in the Forest’, The Pagan, 1.12
(1917), 19–26.
22. J. Opotashu, ‘New-World Idyll’, The Pagan, 2.6–7 (1917), 3–13. For the original, see Y. Opatoshu,
‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’, in Gezamelte verk, ii (Vilna: B. Kletskin, 1929), pp. 109–33.
23. See, e.g., Opatoshu, ‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’, pp. 123, 129.
24. See Aviva Taubenfeld, ‘“Only an ‘L’”: Linguistic Borders and the Immigrant Author in Abraham
Cahan’s Yekl and Yankl der Yankee’, in Multilingual America: Transnationalism, Ethnicity, and the
Languages of American Literature, ed. by Werner Sollors (New York: New York University Press,
1998), pp. 157–58.
25. Victoria Kingham, ‘The Pagan, Joseph Kling, and American Salon Socialism’, Journal of Modern
Periodical Studies, 1 (2010), 1–37.
26. Ben S. [ Joseph Kling], ‘A propos et mal a propos’, The Pagan, 1.5 (1916), p. 38.
27. Theodore Dreiser, ‘Change’, The Pagan, 1.5 (1916), 27–28.
28. ‘Letter Box’, The Pagan, 1.5 (1916), 43–44.
29. Ben S., ‘A propos et mal a propos’, p. 35.
30. Kingham, ‘The Pagan, Joseph Kling, and American Salon Socialism’, pp. 9–10.
31. Joseph Opatoshu, Hibru (New York: Max N. Mayzel, 1920), p. 101. My translation. Thanks
to Mikhail Krutikov for alerting me to this passage, and to Asya Vaisman for help with the
translation.
32. Kingham, ‘The Pagan, Joseph Kling, and American Salon Socialism’, p. 32.
33. J. K. [ Joseph Kling], ‘As if to show ...’, The Pagan, 2.11 (1918), 41.
34. J. K. [ Joseph Kling], ‘A Greenwich Village Idyll’, The Pagan, 2.10 (1918), 33–37.
35. Hart Crane, ‘Book Review: Sherwood Anderson’, The Pagan, 4.5 (1919), 60–61. Reprinted in
The Complete Poems and Selected Letters and Prose of Hart Crane, ed. by Brom Weber (New York:
Liveright Publishing Corporation, 1966), pp. 205–06.
36. See the Opatoshu bibliography (Chapter 16 of the present volume) for citations of these
translations. The film adaptation Romance of a Horse Thief was directed by Abraham Polonsky
(1971), and while it diverges almost entirely, and rather absurdly, from the plot of the novella, it
does feature a humorous scene in a brothel, in which the non-Jewish authority figure Captain
Stoloff, played by Yul Brynner, is bamboozled by the madam while the Jewish horse thieves
escape his notice thanks to the prostitutes’ cooperation.
37. The book-length translations of Opatoshu’s work into English, in addition to the translation
of In Polish Woods cited above, are The Last Revolt: The Story of Rabbi Akiva, trans. by Moshe
Spiegel (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1952), A Day in Regensburg, trans.
by Jacob Sloan (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1968), and ‘Morris and
his son Philip’, trans. by Albert Waldinger, in Shining and Shadow: An Anthology of Early Yiddish
Stories from the Lower East Side (Selingsgrove: Susquehanna University Press, 2006), pp. 281–94.
38. On these developments, see Lambert, ‘Isaac Goldberg’, pp. 153–55.
Ch a p t e r 13
v
Yiddish Exceptionalism: Lynching, Race,

and Racism in Opatoshu’s Lintsheray
Marc Caplan
In the third of its four sections, the American Yiddish writer A. Leyeles’s poem In
subvey (In the Subway, 1926) takes an unexpected turn when the speaker imagines
(himself?) an African-American man in a subway car pressing against a white
female passenger. As a pristine example of High Modernist aesthetics, the uneasy
juxtaposition of a Black man and a white woman, apparent strangers, represents the
danger and desire of accidental, disorienting encounters in the modern city, as well
as the internal logic of a poetic strategy that produces meaning out of unexpected
and incongruous combinations of words and sounds; the poem’s rapid, almost
rapping rhymes are as significant as the image of urban dystopia it depicts, and the
effect of the whole reiterates the initiatory paradox of an American poet writing in
Yiddish and a Yiddish poet writing not about the East European shtetl but about the
American metropolis. These avant-garde strategies venture into the phantasmagoric
when the author writes:
A vays meydl un a neyger
Troyer
In dem rirevdikn groyn moyer
Troyer fun dem yeyger,
Vos veys, az er kon zayn gegartstn fang nisht krign.
Nisht untn af di relsn reydlen reyder.
Reyder virblen, shvindlen, dreyn
In a shvartsn, krayzldikn, umgliklekhn kop.
(Lintsh-fayern — f laker, f laker.
Shlayf fun t’liye — shtayfer, shtayfer).
Der neyger drikt zikh shtarker
Tsu dem meydl.
[A white girl and a Negro.
Gloom
In the moving, grey wall.
Gloom of a hunter
Who knows he will not get his choicest pray.
Not down on the rails do the wheels roll —
The dizzying, swinging wheels whirl
Yiddish Exceptionalism 185
In a black, curled, unhappy head.

(Lynching fires — f laming, f laming.
Loop of a gallows — brighter, brighter).
The Negro squeezes tighter
Against the girl.]1
In this image, the turning subway wheels generate a vertigo through which the
man’s desire for the woman transforms him from the pursuer to the pursued, and
the heat generated by people in claustrophobic proximity becomes the f lames
consuming the man’s body as punishment for a sexual crime still only imagined.
Although the entire purpose of this portrayal of sexualized racial taboo is to
shock the reader, it is nonetheless unsurprising that Leyeles makes reference to
lynching; lynching is a recurring theme in American Yiddish poetry.2 Perhaps the
most complicated, provocative, and problematic depiction of this issue in Yiddish
literature, however, can be found in Joseph Opatoshu’s long story Lintsheray
(Lynching), first published in book form in Warsaw in 1923.3 Indeed, Lintsheray
is the only extended narrative of the collection, but it introduces a series of much
shorter vignettes — presumably appearing originally in Der Tog (Day), a New York
Yiddish daily to which Opatoshu was a lifelong contributor — dramatizing other
aspects of what would now be termed American multiculturalism: race and racism,
anti-Semitism, intermarriage between Jews and non-Jews, and the plight of non-
Jewish immigrants from Russia, Poland, Italy, and China, among other themes.
It is safe to contend that no other Yiddish writer offers a more graphic examination
of racist violence toward African-Americans than Opatoshu does in the thirty-five
or so pages of this story. Its central action is the pursuit and lynching of a young
African-American man, Bukert (one wonders if this might be a mistaken rendering
of the name Booker?). In short episodes the story progresses from the perspective
of Bukert’s grandfather Jim — the association of his name with the African-
American protagonist of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn is irresistible — his mother
and siblings; the sheriff of Burke, Georgia;4 the white townspeople who anticipate
the lynching; the lynch-mob leader McClure, whose daughter apparently has been
violated by Bukert — though this is in turn retaliation for McClure himself having
violated Bukert’s sister; and eventually Bukert’s own f light, capture, and torturous
execution by the lynch mob.
The panoramic perspective of this story provides a focused and urgent example
of Opatoshu’s lifelong commitment to an aesthetic of literary realism, a practice that
in its broadest dimensions serves to illustrate, valorize, and critique the processes
by which a society rationalizes and modernizes itself.5 Like the great novelists of
nineteenth-century European literature, Opatoshu uses literature to hold a mirror
up to his society as a synthetic and synchronic whole. The problem, however, for
Yiddish literature in America — a problem that makes this belated investment in
realism provocative and useful for an understanding of the realist project generally
— is determining to what extent a writer such as Opatoshu can effectively represent
his adopted nation in Yiddish, when one of the few universal traits of American
public life, in his day as much as at present, was the monolingual hegemony of
the English language. As the ensuing discussion will argue, Opatoshu’s artistic
186 Marc Caplan
shortcomings in this instance enable the story he narrates to provide an invaluable,

if complicated, insight into the sociology of racism; the use of realist narrative
strategies in a Yiddish story about lynching captures the contradictions of American
racism because the story’s very existence is, in a sense, contradictory.
In a 1954 essay Opatoshu offers his assessment of Yiddish culture in America over
the previous six decades, starting with the Sweatshop poets and the first issue of the
journal Di Tsukunft, and concluding with perhaps surprising optimism about the
continued vitality of Yiddish in America after the Holocaust. Two comments from
the essay are especially relevant for assessing Opatoshu’s own writing — nowhere
mentioned in his remarks — and its approach to American themes: of America itself
Opatoshu writes:
There is a rhythm in America that is alien to Europe; not the external rhythm
that is only skin deep, but the inner rhythm that comes from getting to be at
home in the country, with the average American, of whom one out of two
traces his ancestry back to four or five peoples.6
On the location of Yiddish in the United States he writes, by contrast:
Yiddish literature in the United States, though far from its source of origin,
assumed an artistic form in many respects superior to the work of the first
masters; reminding one that the great Polish works of Mickiewicz and Słowacki
were written not in Poland but in France and Switzerland.7
These observations crystallize the general argument of the essay, that one of the
challenges to writing in Yiddish in the United States is the multicultural mix of
dynamism and danger that characterizes American society and distinguishes it from
the ostensibly homogeneous culture of Eastern European Jewry with which Yiddish
writers continue to identify their ethnic origins.8 Even when writing on American
subjects, Yiddish literature thus remains the work of an exiled and peripheral
culture.
For the American Yiddish writer, consequently, the natural habitat for Yiddish
culture, and the primary measurement of cultural authenticity — a value in
Opatoshu’s critical universe, whatever readers luxuriating in their own post-mod
ernism may think of the concept — is to be found for the American Yiddishist,
like the Polish nationalist in exile, not where he or she is, but where he or she is
from. Given both the enormity of Opatoshu’s output as well as the intellectual
curiosity that motivates the entirety of his career, it should nonetheless come as little
surprise that the challenges of writing about America in Yiddish motivate some of
the author’s most interesting and innovative fiction. To an equal degree, however,
it should come as no surprise that this fiction in many respects actually confirms
the focus he prescribes for Yiddish fiction on its own ethnic integrity as well as its
orientation not to the American present but to the traditions of a Jewish past.
Although Opatoshu deserves credit in Lintsheray for his capacities of moral
imagination, emotional empathy, and political indignation when confronting the
most egregious human rights problem in the United States at that time, the story
not only reveals the inevitable limits that a talented writer in particular encounters
when trying to depict a fundamentally foreign culture — a less talented or ambitious
writer would never approach these limits in the first place — but also suggests
analogous limits for representing ethnic difference within the discourse of Yiddish
fiction generally. At the outset of the story, Opatoshu provides a description of an
African-American character, the grandfather Jim, which reads as a compendium of
dehumanizing stereotypes:
Af der shvel in shotn iz gezesn an alter neyger. [...] Di tsu lange hent
arumgef lokhtn arum di fis, un di shvere d’lonyes mit tseshpreyte finger [...]
hobn, dakht zikh, ongerirt di erd. Er hot gedrimlt mit halb-farmakhte oygn-
leplekh. Zayn kurtse platshike noz mit di tseefnte noz-lekher, di krayzlekh afn
kop, vos zenen gekrokhn biz tsu di bremen, di nakete hent mit di pleytses vi
mit a groyer, oysgekrokhener pel arumgenumen — alts hot dermant an altn
urang-utang. (p. 8)
[At the threshold in the shadows sat an old Negro. [...] His distended arms hung
around his feet, and the heavy palms with outstretched fingers [...] seemed
to touch the earth. He dozed with half-shut eyes. His short, f lat nose with
f lared nostrils, the curls on his head which extended to his eyebrows, the bare
arms with shoulders covered in grey f leece — all of this resembled an aged
orangutan.]
This unfortunate description indicates that Opatoshu resorts to the same clichés
when describing an unfamiliar ethnicity that other writers of his day better
acquainted with Black people and ethnic difference recycled habitually.9
A more interesting literary and linguistic problem presents itself, however, when
describing Black characters not as an ethnic type, but as people interacting with
other people. For example, when Jim greets the sheriff and his deputies at his door he
takes note of the occasion by calling them ongeleygte gest, ‘welcome guests’, sounding
more like Sholem Aleichem’s Tevye the Dairyman than an African-American from
the Jim Crow South (p. 13). In conspicuous contrast, when Bukert’s mother hears
the unwelcome news that he is wanted for the rape of McClure’s daughter Carrie,
she crosses herself silently and fervently (ibid.), a gesture more characteristic of
Polish Catholics than of American Protestants. These two details point to a larger
problem in Opatoshu’s approach to portraying Black people, one that ultimately
resonates with other Yiddish depictions: are African-Americans as a powerless and
degraded people to be likened to Jews, or to Slavic peasants?10 Does the perspective
of the description assume that they are identical to Jews, or inversely Other?
This problem, ultimately, is as much linguistic as it is psychological or political.
Though American discourse, and particularly African-American discourse, is
as rooted in the Bible as Yiddish discourse is, it is nevertheless difficult beyond
Opatoshu’s rhetorical assumptions to find equivalences between English idioms and
Yiddish ones; consider in this regard the remark of a farmer who has come with the
sheriff to serve papers on Bukert at the beginning of the story: ‘Afile damols ven
s’vet dikh hern dos letste blozn fun shoyfer, vet a neyger zogn ‘omeyn’ nokh dem
galakhs droshe’ (Even when you’ll hear the last blast of the Shofar, a Negro will
still say ‘Amen’ after the Priest’s sermon; p. 14). Although American Protestantism
shares with Jewish eschatology a concept of ‘Gabriel’s trumpet’ ushering in either
apocalypse or redemption, dos letste blozn fun shoyfer neither captures the Southern
idiom nor does it bring the image it signifies closer to a Jewish means of expression.
188 Marc Caplan
Similarly, dem galakhs droshe is neither a Protestant minister’s sermon nor a Catholic
priest’s homily. By the same token, when Jim exclaims ‘vi ikh bin a krist’ (as sure
as I’m a Christian, p. 15), it fails to match either the rhetorical power or the literal
meaning of ‘az ikh bin a yid’ (sure as I’m a Jew!), because unlike the inextricable
equation of Yiddish with Jewishness — an equivalence that Opatoshu resists in
this passage — Christianity in America can be affirmed neither univocally nor
monolingually.
The problems Opatoshu encounters when imagining a Black character go
beyond the linguistic challenges of rendering an anglophone consciousness in
Yiddish; they return the reader’s attention to the more essential, and essentializing,
question of how literature relates for Opatoshu to the history and traditions of a
specific language and culture. When Jim inevitably associates Bukert’s fate in the
twentieth century with his own childhood memories of slavery, the author renders
his thoughts by writing:
Di baytsh iz gef loygn ibern layb mit a fayf, zikh ayngegesn in blut un an
ayngeboyrene shrek, vos meglekh zayne ureltern hobn ibergelebt in di Afrikaner
velder, ven zey zenen gekrokhn af ale fir zikh oysbahaltn nisht tserisn tsu vern
fun a vilder khaye — di zelbe shrek hot zikh genumen vekn in im. (p. 16)
[The whip f lew over the skin with a whistle, eating its way into the blood, and
a natal fear that maybe his ancestors experienced in the African jungles when
they crawled on all fours to hide themselves so that a wild animal would not
tear them to shreds — the same fear was awoken in him.]
Although the image of African ancestors crawling on all fours is undeniably racist,
the larger comparison equates the white slave driver with wild animals, a more
pointedly dehumanizing image that serves to reverse the logic of white supremacy
by rendering the white racist much lower on the evolutionary scale than the Black
people whom he brutalizes physically and terrorizes psychologically. Because
Opatoshu has inherited a discourse about Black people from white racism, however,
it can only inhabit the limits set by that discourse in its imaginative poverty.
Had Opatoshu been describing Jewish suffering, by contrast, he could have, and
would have, drawn on a ready-made mythopoesis derived from biblical narrative,
folk legend, rabbinical rhetoric, and the whole history of the Jewish Diaspora.
Describing the travails of American Black people, however, he reverts to an image
of a primal, a-historical past.
The rhetorical problem of finding the language to describe Black suffering bespeaks
and begets a narrative problem of how to align the narrator’s obvious sympathies for
Black characters confronting the injustice of American racism with the obligation
of translating these experiences into a recognizable Yiddish idiom. This challenge
is a consequence of the author’s need to confront two languages simultaneously
within the monolingual decorum of literary realism; the disconnection of English
with Yiddish results in what might be described as a ‘polytonal’ narrative situation,
like a musical composition played in two keys at the same instance. Although
literary modernism, particularly but not exclusively in Yiddish, often cultivates such
linguistic dissonances, polytonality in a realistic discourse is as disruptive as it is in
a tonal composition, because it underscores the irreparable disconnections between
the social elements that the realist narrative would be expected to dramatize and
thus reconcile. This artistic f law nonetheless contributes to the story’s moral value:
by capturing the contradictions of American racial discourse, Opatoshu makes of
American racism an object that in turn exposes the inability to reconcile the social
dissonances of the culture for a rational and national modernity.11 Opatoshu’s failure
as a realist, moreover, underscores his temporal, political, and thematic affinities
with contemporaneous Yiddish modernism. Even unwittingly or unwillingly, it
is perhaps the fate of the peripheral writer to approach the avant-garde, if only by
virtue of his or her status between languages and cultures.
Indeed, for a realist narrative to provide a harmonizing, if not homogenizing,
perspective on the various social elements through which it constitutes itself, it
must focus on a central character, space, or social institution that brings coherence
to the social dimension of the story it relates; hence the reliance of realist novels
on the country boy come to the big city, the unhappy marriage of two people
from different classes or generations, the life of the stock market or the railroad,
or the convergence of different classes and world-views at a market, a parade, or
a harbour. For Opatoshu, the problem of reconciling the American experience
with a Yiddish perspective could perhaps understandably be negotiated by Jewish
characters, particularly Yiddish-speaking immigrants. This strategy imparts on
Lintsheray a curious dramatic structure, but one that ultimately points to the ethical
essence of the story and its relevance for a Yiddish readership. At the very middle
of the narration, Opatoshu interrupts the main action of the story to present an
exchange between what are apparently the only Jewish residents of the town. In
schematic terms, therefore, these Jews stand midway between the story’s focus on
Bukert’s family, and the pursuit of Bukert by the lynch mob — Jews stand in the
story midway between Blacks and whites, yet in structural as well as linguistic terms
are detached from both.
There are three Jewish characters depicted explicitly in the story — the hardware
store owner Levy, his son, and a shoemaker named Harry. Levy actively opposes
Bukert’s lynching and speaks to his son in Yiddish. His son replies to him in
English and actively seeks to participate if not in the torture of Bukert at least in the
celebrations that accompany the spectacle. The shoemaker, who conspicuously uses
the English expression ‘all right’, an emblem in American Yiddish of assimilation
and the abandonment of Jewish communal spirit,12 more ambiguously appears at
the ‘carnival’ but doesn’t take a visible role in the crime itself. As this schematic
relationship suggests, the role of Yiddish serves as a moral index for the positioning
of these characters, and the implications of this are manifest already in the conf lict
between Levy and his son, as Opatoshu writes:
Du vest nisht forn!
Kh’vel yo forn!
Un ikh zog, az nisht! A yid darf zikh nisht mishn!
Un az s’vet trefn mit mayn shvester [...]
Vos darfstu klern, vos es vet trefn? S’vet nisht trefn! S’vet nisht trefn! Ober
ven me vet erloybn aza shiker, vi Meklur, er zol aleyn kenen vern ‘dzhodzhzh’
(rikhter) farzikher ikh dir, az me vet haynt lintshn a neyger un morgn a
yid! (p. 20)
190 Marc Caplan
[You won’t go! | I will go! | And if I say no, you won’t! A Jew shouldn’t get
involved! | And if it were my sister [...]? | Why do you have to think about
what might happen? It won’t happen! It won’t happen! But if they’ll allow a
drunk like McClure to act as ‘judge’ (English in original), I can assure you that
today they’ll lynch a Negro, and tomorrow a Jew!]
Levy’s warning to his son that where Blacks are lynched Jews are similarly
endangered alludes explicitly to the 1915 lynching of Leo Frank, which took place
like Lintsheray in Georgia, and which was the most explicit and violent anti-Semitic
episode in American history. Whether or not Lintsheray first appeared, as Sundquist
states, in the year of Frank’s murder, this atrocity would certainly have been on his
readers’ mind whenever and wherever the story appeared.13
Levy therefore has the advantage over his son of actual historical precedent in
arguing that Jewish identification with American society lies not in cultural affinity
with white people, but the political liberty guaranteed by rational social institutions
to all citizens — Jews as much as the African-Americans whom Opatoshu otherwise
depicts in the acquiescent rhetoric of racial inferiority pervasive in his day. Indeed,
on a political level such rhetoric actually reinforces the political case Opatoshu
makes for the equal protections of the Constitution, in a historical moment when
they were not only contested but nearly eclipsed: ‘even’ African-Americans, as
much as Jews or any other citizens, deserve these rights. As the sheriff in Lintsheray
explains to Bukert before unwittingly handing him over to the lynch mob, ‘Dos
gezets veys nisht fun keyn vayse, fun keyn shvartse, bam gezets zenen ale glaykh!’ (The Law
doesn’t know from white or black, under the law all are equal, p. 28). The reader,
presumably then as now, recognizes the lie of these statements — in 1923 lynching
itself wasn’t a federal crime in the United States — and the sheriff ’s weakness
directly parallels Levy’s powerlessness over his own son. What transpires in the
sheriff ’s failure to implement the promise of legal order is the ritual that Opatoshu
describes at the end of the story, which in fact demonstrates how tenuous the power
of rationality and justice are either in the Georgia of his depiction or in the Georgia
of historical reality.
Nonetheless, as the historian Hasia Diner notes, the faith in the rule of law
that the sheriff both represents and betrays is a characteristic feature of Yiddish
advocacy in Opatoshu’s day. As she quotes the Yiddish journalist Philip Krantz,
writing in 1918, ‘Our Black fellow citizens are still being held down in spite of
all the provisions of the United States Constitution, in spite of paper statements
about equal recognition of citizens, even if he does not have the luck to be covered
with white skin’.14 Diner cites this as evidence of a general attitude in the Yiddish
press, and in this respect one should not be surprised to encounter little difference
between the liberalism of Opatoshu’s Der Tog and the democratic socialism of
the Forverts (Forward). Like Opatoshu, Krantz cites the US Constitution in his
indictment of American racism, so that he, like Opatoshu, identifies with the ideals
of American political culture while he condemns the reality of American racism.
Opatoshu’s fiction echoes Krantz’s position, in that it identifies race as a central
political problem in American society, while resisting a complacent identification
with the dominant white (and anglophone) culture.15 This culture, as Opatoshu
recognizes, in fact can only constitute itself as ‘white’ against a Blackness that it
unites in order to oppress:
Bald, nokhmittog, hobn di farmers ongehoybn tsunoyftsu-forn zikh arum dem
indianer bergl [...]. Mentshn vos hobn zikh kimat nisht gekont tsunoyfredn
zikh, oysgemitn s’gantse lebn, zikh faynt gehat, hobn mit a mol avekgevorfn ale
farurteyln, zikh mer nisht geteylt in amerikaner, daytshn, italiener, un slavn,
fargesn in dem eyntselnem, vi er volt gornisht ekzistirt un zikh fareynikt. Dos
iz di vayse rase zikh gekumen oprekhnen mit der shvartser. (pp. 31–32)
[Soon, in the afternoon, the farmers began to gather together around the Indian
mound [...]. People who were almost unable to speak to one another, who
had avoided one another their entire life, despised one another, in the instant
discarded their prejudices, ceased to divide themselves as Americans, Germans,
Italians, and Slavs, forgot their individuality as if it had never existed, and
united. This was the white race that had come together to settle scores with
the Black.]
Opatoshu gathers all of Europe together in this spectacle — but not Jews. He
maintains the moral and ethnic difference of Jewishness, even as this exceptionalism
impedes the work’s narrative logic; if so little is at stake for Jews in it, why was it
written in Yiddish, for an exclusively Jewish readership?
The aim of the Yiddish press in general, including the fiction of writers such as
Opatoshu, can be characterized as a ‘critical Americanization’: the act of identifying
with America in Yiddish preserves a distance from the object of identification.
Yiddish serves in this context to maintain the distinctness of Jewish ethnicity,
particularly among Jews who had largely abandoned ritual observance, even as
the Yiddish press as an institution contributes to the integration of its readers,
including, vicariously, the audience subscribing to the American press or reading its
writers in Europe. For this reason, the argument that, for example, the Constitution
in its original iteration actually institutionalized the racial inequality against which
American Blacks struggled is ultimately beside the point.16 Opatoshu instead
expresses a simultaneous identification with and scepticism toward the claims of
what would now be referred to as American exceptionalism. This ambivalence is
also the function of the Yiddish language in preserving a sense of Jewish difference
counterpoised to the model of American assimilation (championed, most famously,
in Mary Antin’s equally liberal English-language autobiography, The Promised Land
(1912)); it is precisely this sense of linguistic and cultural difference that Opatoshu
dramatizes and defends by depicting the moral contrast between Levy and his son
in terms of the language they each speak. Such a distinction might be termed, for
want of a phrase, ‘Yiddish exceptionalism’, and this concept — that Jews remain
distinct from other American ethnicities above all with respect to race relations —
continues to play a foundational role in Jewish liberalism long after the heyday of
radical Yiddishism.17
Opatoshu’s reliance on institutionality as the source of his Americanism in fact
underscores the claims he makes explicit in his 1954 essay, by suggesting an identi
fication with America via the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the Law, as opposed
to embracing an American ethnic (or even post-ethnic) identity. Americanism in
192 Marc Caplan
this sense both parallels an original conception of Judaism as a civilization rooted in

acceptance of Divine Law, and also contrasts with a modern, de-sacralized concept
of Jewishness understood precisely as an ethnicity, an alternative national loyalty
that nevertheless would not contradict American citizenship. Racism in these
terms necessarily stands as the polar opposite of such an identification, both in its
manifestations against Black people and as anti-Semitism against Jews. Opatoshu’s
Americanism therefore is as dependent in an ideological sense on the honourable, if
ineffectual, intentions of the sheriff as his narrative depends in a dramatic sense on
Bukert’s guilt in the rape of McClure’s daughter: the drama and the ideology of the
story work at cross purposes, and this contradiction lays bare the limits of literary
realism as a representational strategy as well as the contradictions of American society.
Indeed, the fictional logic of lynching seems to demand an actual act of interracial
coupling, whether consensual or not, whereas the political purpose of lynching as
a polemical motif would forbid just this development. The dramatic imperatives
of lynching as a motif moreover underscore the extent to which Opatoshu’s
representation of the issue was dependent on racist stereotypes, and yet his work
can be seen not just as recycling these stereotypes, but — because they are received
rather than embraced — archiving them. It is just this dramatic consideration that
perhaps explains why lynching is a relatively marginal theme in contemporaneous
African-American belles-lettres.18 Removing the racist presumption of guilt from
the lynching fiction would deprive the story of a dramatic counterweight to the
violence at its conclusion and would accordingly reduce the fiction from tragic ritual
to sadistic spectacle, whereas its inclusion legitimates the racist fantasy (projection)
that fuelled actual lynchings, and would obligate the author to broach the taboo
subjects of interracial sex, desire, and violence.19
Such anxieties fail to register as significantly in Yiddish literature of the era, and
so the use of the motif provides the occasion for Yiddish writers to empathize with
Black suffering while transgressing both the American racial divide and the thematic
decorum of previous Yiddish writing. Unlike his modernist contemporaries in the
Harlem Renaissance, who devote so little attention to lynching because the subject
cannot be depicted artistically, Opatoshu, who lacks their aesthetic aims, is willing
to attempt this depiction, and the result maintains a historical, sociological value far
beyond the polemical purpose it served for its original readership. In this respect,
the conclusion of Lintsheray not only fulfils the ritualistic, tragic components of
the lynching fiction, but also transforms Opatoshu’s realist polemic literally into a
Passion Play, a sacrificial ritual that in its mythical elements, which conf late Eros
with violence and death, constitutes an anti-modern, reactionary resistance to the
modernizing regime that the Sheriff ineffectually attempts to institute, and which
Opatoshu as the narrator of the story champions. The transition from literary realism
to metaphysical parable occurs metonymically, with a description of a cemetery:
Barg-arop hot zikh getsoygn di semeteri (beys oylem), arumgetsoymt mit
a vaysn shteynernem ployt, di kevorim vos zenen gelofn in glaykhe shures,
hobn fun dervaytns zikh dernentert, di breyte shteyner hobn oysgezeyn vi
opgekalekhte hayzlekh un di vayse tselomim iber zey hobn dertseylt vegn
rakhmones, vegn a gekreytstn Got, vos ruft tsu zikh di shvakhe. (p. 32)
[A cemetery [English in original] stretched down the hill, surrounded by a

white stone fence, the graves running in even lines, and when approaching
nearer the broad stones resembled white-washed little houses and the white
crosses over them told of mercy, and a crucified God that calls to himself the
weak.]
Taking his cue from this description, Opatoshu invests Bukert’s death with the
mythic paradoxes of Christian salvation; he becomes both crucified deity and
redeemed believer.
Seizing on this status, Bukert makes a last request of the mob — an occurrence
that in an actual lynching would have been as unlikely as it is dramatically
compelling in Opatoshu’s fiction — to read from the Bible, and his selection is
aptly eschatological:
Un ikh hob gezeyn vi in himl hot zikh a tir geefnt, un di ershte shtime, vos hot
geredt tsu mir hot geklungen vi fun a trompeyt, vos redt tsu mir un zogt; ‘kum
aruf tsu mir un ikh vel dir vayzn zakhn, vos veln gesheyn shpeter’ [...]. Bukerts
shtime hot geklungen alts hekher un klerer, di oygn gevendt tsum himl vi a
heyliker, azoy hobn gemuzt oyszeyn di ershte kristn ven zey zenen geshtanen
far di shayter-hoyfns. (p. 36)20
[After this I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven: and the first
voice which I heard was as it were of a trumpet talking with me; which
said, ‘Come up hither, and I will show thee things which must be hereafter’
(Revelations 4:1) [...]. Bukert’s voice rang louder and clearer, his eyes turned
heavenwards, like a saint, just as the first Christians must have appeared when
they stood before the pyres.]
Opatoshu’s use of Christian discourse is part of a general trend in Yiddish literature
of the era,21 which both domesticates a foreign reference system for Yiddish readers
— implicitly claiming Jesus as a Jewish cultural hero and role model for antinomian
radicalism — and, by identifying Jesus not with downtrodden Jews but their fellow
sufferers, African-Americans, preserves a sense of religious and cultural difference
separating Jews from other Americans. Unlike other Yiddish writers using Christian
imagery in the era, Opatoshu displaces the identification of Jesus with Jewishness
onto African-Americans and Black spiritual discourse, thereby preserving the
decorum of realist mimesis while transcending its rationalizing limitations.22
Further completing the transition from realism to ritual, Bukert concludes his
declamation by tearing pages out of the Bible and spreading them over the crowd
that has gathered beneath him on the Indian mound (p. 36). The temporary spell
of Bukert’s words — which prompts one member of the lynch mob to disentangle
himself from their actions and denounce the others as false Christians (ibid.) —
comes to an end when a car carrying wood for the lynching pyre arrives and the
murderous purpose of the mob resumes: the modern conveyance is thus decoupled
from its modernizing function, and instead prompts the lynch mob to denounce
the man who had just left their company as a ‘Yankee’, reiterating the (reactionary,
regionalist) resistance to the nation-state. At the same time as this gesture preserves
the rationalizing critique of aesthetic realism, the author superimposes onto this
discourse the cosmological conf lict of paganism against Christianity — and,
194 Marc Caplan
implicitly or ironically, Jewishness — and barbarism against modernity. As Opa

toshu writes:
Der oylem iz gevorn vild, zikh arumgekhapt, geshrign, vi er volt mit a mol
zikh gevolt bafrayen fun epes fremds, vos iz gehangen vi a keyt arum zayne fis
un s’hot oysgezeyn vi dos getsndineray hot nokh a tsvey-toyznt yorikn shlof,
zikh tsurik ufgekhapt inem mentshn, nemt nekome far di oysgetsarte kerpers,
geshmisene layber, vil oysraysn mitn vortsl di doyres fun tsurikgehaltnkayt. Hot
men dem gekreytstn Got vos hot mit dem kishuf-vort ‘rakhmones’ tsebrokhn
di alte geter, zikh geranglt mit oysgelasnkayt, un zind, tsuirk arufgezetst af der
shtabe un untergetsundn. (pp. 39–40)23
[The crowd went wild, embracing each other, shouting, as if it had in the
instant freed itself from something foreign, which was hanging like a chain
around its feet, and it appeared that an idolatry that had slumbered for two
thousand years reawakened in the people, took its revenge upon the tortured
bodies, the f logged skins, as if to tear out at the roots generations of restraint.
They took the crucified God — who with his magic word ‘Mercy’ had smashed
all their idols, done battle with immorality and sin — and refastened Him to
the post, and set it alight.]
In Opatoshu’s paradoxical realist parable, racism transforms the white Christian
racist into his own imagined opposite.
What this violent contrast between politics and metaphysics, realism and ritual,
achieves in total is a significant departure from what one might expect from a
Yiddish depiction of lynching, and possibly quite different from what the author
may have intended for this story. In its uneasy conjunction of irreconcilable
elements, it frustrates the commonly understood aims of literary realism, while
remaining mostly faithful to its aesthetic means. As much as the violence it depicts
is dedicated to the refutation of American modernity and the primacy of the
state, Yiddish literature in America — from the polar opposite end of the political
and moral spectrum — also offers a rejoinder to the assumptions of an American
national culture and the place of Jews in it. At the same time, the achievement of
this story, as confused as it is in its particulars, challenges a complacent notion of
what Yiddish can express about the Jewish, immigrant, encounter with America.
There was once no shortage of readers unwilling to acknowledge that a story
like Lintsheray could be written in Yiddish. As a representative exposition of this
critique, Isaac Bashevis Singer — an author otherwise quite resistant from his
own perspective to playing the role of spokesperson — writes in a somewhat
controversial essay from 1943:
The idea that Yiddish literature — and, indeed, Yiddish culture — can be
cosmopolitan, an equal among equals was from the beginning built upon
misconceptions. The Jews who wanted to be one hundred percent cosmopolitan
switched to other cultures and grew accustomed to foreign languages. Those
drawn to Yiddish words, to Yiddish letters, were bound by a thousand threads
to the whole spiritual baggage of the Diaspora. [...] The Diaspora — the Jewish
communities and their leaders, rabbis, ritual slaughterers, trustees and scholars;
the pious shopkeeper and the artisan, the fervent housewife, the yeshiva boy
and the child bride — this is and shall remain the subject of Yiddish literature
and the determinant of its content and form.24
In a sense, Opatoshu seems to arrive at a similar conclusion when he turns from

the socially motivated descriptions of contemporary life to another species of
literary realism, the historical novel. Although Lintsheray does not signify the
achievement of imaginative affinity readers might wish for a Jewish leftist writing
about African-Americans, the effort to write on this theme is not in vain. If the
shortcomings of the story confirm Bashevis’s conclusion, the compelling aspects of
the narrative reiterate these conclusions in terms far less smug than the future Nobel
laureate would formulate. Themes like the lynching of American Blacks could
neither be rationalized nor redeemed by the Yiddish language or the discourse of
literary realism. It is to the credit of Yiddish and its speakers that no native term
for ‘lynching’ exists; it is to Opatoshu’s credit as a writer that this does not dissuade
him from addressing the subject and testing the limits of his own imagination. The
desire to test those limits is the task of literature of whatever language or aesthetic,
and in that sense, an experiment needn’t be successful to be significant.25
Notes to Chapter 13
1. A.Leyeles, ‘In subvey’ (In the Subway), in American Yiddish Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology, ed. by
Benjamin and Barbara Harshav (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), pp. 102–03. The
poem first appeared (in book form) in Rondos un andere lider (New York: In zikh, 1926), p. 45.
2. In addition to Leyeles, explicit references to lynching occur in the work of significant American
poets writing in Yiddish such as Moyshe-Leyb Halpern (Dos hob ikh geredt tsu mayn eyntsikn zun
baym shpil — un mer tsu keynem nisht/This I Said to My Only Son at Play — and to Nobody Else),
Berysh Vaynshteyn (Lintshing/Lynching), and I. J. Schwartz (Kentocki/Kentucky). Bilingual
references to lynching for Halpern and Vaynshteyn can be found in American Yiddish Poetry,
pp. 504–05 and 646–47, respectively. An explicit reference to lynching in Schwartz’s poem can
be found in the first edition (New York: Farlag M. N. Mayzel, 1925), p. 112. A translation of
Schwartz’s complete epic has been published by Gertrude W. Dubrovsky, Kentucky (Tuscaloosa:
University of Alabama Press, 2004). Among communist-affiliated and fellow-travelling Yiddish
writers, the theme was even more pervasive: in a bilingual anthology of this poetry edited
by Amelia Glaser and David Weintraub, Proletpen: America’s Rebel Yiddish Poets (Madison:
University of Madison Press, 2005), one finds poems about lynching from Y. A. Rontsh (A Gitn
dzhab gemakht/Done a Good Job; pp. 144–51); Yosl Cutler (Neckst/Neckst [sic], pp. 152–57);
Malke Lee (Der Nigger [sic] in sobvey/Negro [sic] on the Subway, 160–63); and, again, Berysh
Vaynshteyn (A Neyger shtarbt/A Negro Dies, pp. 166–67).
3. See Y. Opatoshu, Rase, lintsheray, un andere dertseylungen (Warsaw: Perets-bibliotek, 1923),
pp. 9–51. In this discussion I will be citing from the collected edition of Opatoshu’s writing,
published by the B. Kletskin Farlag in Vilna, 1927, v, 7–41; translations will be my own. There
are minor discrepancies between the two versions, but these differences do not affect my
interpretations. In his magisterial book Strangers in the Land: Blacks, Jews, Post-Holocaust America
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), p. 27, Eric J. Sundquist cites an unpublished
paper by Justin Cammy indicating that prior to its publication in book form Lintsheray appeared
in 1915; however, no additional documentation for this statement is currently available.
4. Burke is the name of an actual county in Georgia that currently forms part of the Augusta
metropolitan area.
5. This critique manifests itself perhaps most vividly in the melancholy of the nineteenth-century
domestic novel, which typically conf lates passion with pathos.
6. Joseph Opatoshu, ‘Fifty Years of Yiddish Literature in the United States’, YIVO Annual of Jewish
Social Science, ix, ed. by Koppel S. Pinson (1954), p. 80. This article was originally a public
address given at the 28th Annual Conference of the YIVO (Yiddish Scientific Institute); as far
as I am aware, no Yiddish version of it has ever been published.
196 Marc Caplan
7. Ibid., p. 79.
8. In addition to serving as a linguistic and cultural home, Eastern Europe remained an important
economic base for Yiddish writers in America until the outbreak of the Second World War, as
Opatoshu’s decision to debut the collection that includes Lintsheray in Warsaw underscores.
9. Another emigrant from Poland, but one who adopted the English language along with the habits
of an English gentleman, made even more purposeful and misanthropic use of these inherited
clichés:
And between whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He was an improved
specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there below me and, upon my word,
to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather
hat walking on his hind legs.
See Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness [1899] (New York: W. W. Norton, Inc, 1988), p. 38. As
with Opatoshu, Conrad’s repetition of demeaning and stereotypical images is ambivalent, since
although his narrator remains committed to a racial world-view that explicitly dehumanizes
Africans, the story he tells provides one of the most devastating critiques of European
colonialism at its apex.
10. Berysh Vaynshteyn, the Yiddish poet who wrote most intensively and successfully about
African-Americans, represents this dilemma sequentially in his first collection of poems,
Brukhvarg [Remnants] (New York: Farlag Khaverim-komitet, 1936). Dividing the work into
thematically arranged chapters, the section titled Neygers (Negroes) is sandwiched between the
chapters Mishpokhe (Family) and Yungen fun der volye (Youths on the outskirts), i.e. equidistant
between Jews and Slavs, the familiar and the outsider.
11. It comes as no surprise, of course, that even ninety years later these disconnections continue to
play out, in symbolic terms as much as institutional and social ones. To offer an instance that
is significant precisely because of its banality, while I was writing the conclusion to this essay,
my mother — she should live and be well — called to describe a Christmas parade she had just
attended (2012) in Natchitoches, Louisiana, not far from where my parents live. At the climax
of the parade an all-Black troupe of the ‘Shriners’ (Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the
Mystic Shrine) marched, followed in close proximity, but with no interaction whatsoever, by an
all-white group of Confederate Civil War re-enactors. America is not an imagined community,
it is several.
12. An Alrightnik in American Yiddish is a parvenu or an arriviste.
13. Eric J. Sundquist, Strangers in the Land: Blacks, Jews, Post-Holocaust America (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 2005), p. 27.
14. Hasia Diner, In the Almost Promised Land: American Jews and Blacks, 1915–1935 (Westport, CT:
Greenwood Press, 1977), p. 52. Krantz’s article originally appeared in the New York daily
Forverts newspaper, 21 December 1918, p. 1.
15. As Diner writes, ‘[t]he Yiddish newspapers displayed just how American they had become when
they stressed the great gulf between the rhetoric of American democracy and the reality of
racism’ (In the Almost Promised Land, p. 47).
16. At the same time as Opatoshu invests his Americanism in the concept of law, he nevertheless
acknowledges the inextricability of American history and racism by making reference at the
beginning of the story to the original violence that called Burke, Georgia, into being:
Amol, gor amol hot General Burke oysgeshosn in nomen fun Got un fun Englishn
kenig kimat a helft fun fridlekhn shevet tsheroki un di ibergeblibene hot er in a
meshekh fun yorn gehaltn in eyn traybn, biz zey hobn bislekhvayz farlozt dem gegnt
un arbier keyn Florida.
[Once, long ago, General Burke massacred nearly half the peaceful Cherokee tribe in
the name of God and the King of England, and over the years he hounded the rest until
gradually they abandoned the region and crossed the border into Florida.] (p. 7)
17. It also becomes an object of primary vituperation from opponents of this liberalism, among both
American Black nationalists and Jewish neo-conservatives, two groups which, in making of
Jewish liberalism a mutual enemy, as well as through their proclivity to demonize one another,
share more in common than either ideology would wish to admit!
18. There are essentially no references to lynching in the belletristic sections of the leading anthology
of the Harlem Renaissance, The New Negro [1925], ed. by Alain Locke (New York: Macmillan
Publishing Company, 1992); in the single issue of the avant-garde journal Fire!! (edited by
Wallace Thurman, New York: The Fire!! Press, 1926), only one brief poem, Helene Johnson’s
‘A Southern Road’ (p. 17), takes up the subject. Elsewhere in African-American fiction, the
theme appears typically in ironized form: Paul Laurence Dunbar’s short story ‘The Lynching
of Jube Benson’ (1904) depicts a Black man lynched in a case of mistaken identity — the actual
culprit in the violation of the white woman is a white man masquerading in blackface. See The
Heart of Happy Hollow: Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar (New York: Harlem Moon Classics, 2005),
pp. 111–19. More bizarrely (and brilliantly), Charles Chesnutt’s story ‘Dave’s Neckliss’ (1889)
describes a Black labourer who in effect lynches himself after being falsely accused of stealing
a ham from his employers. See The Short Fiction of Charles W. Chesnutt, ed. by Sylvia Lyons
Render (Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 1981), pp. 132–41. Jean Toomer’s ‘Blood
Burning Moon’ (1923) turns the conventions of lynching fiction on their head by depicting a
love triangle in which a Black man is lynched for challenging the claims of a white landowner
on a Black serving-woman. See his Cane [1923] (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1988),
pp. 30–37. Richard Wright’s ‘Bright and Morning Star’ (1940) depicts the lynching of a Black
woman who protects her son from the police, who seek to persecute his political militancy. See
his Uncle Tom’s Children (New York: Harper & Row, 1989), pp. 181–215. The most extensive
fictional treatment of the theme in Anglophone American literature is the novel Holiday (1923),
written by the Jewish author Waldo Frank, who at the time was Jean Toomer’s closest friend.
As Kathleen Pfeiffer notes in her introduction to the novel, while Frank and Toomer travelled
through the South to research their respective literary projects, Frank ‘passed’ as a Black man:
‘As Toomer and Frank both knew, the dark-complected Frank would surely be taken for a black
man while traveling in the South in the company of a black man’ (Holiday (Urbana: University
of Illinois Press, 2003), p. xxvi). Finally, the most famous description of lynching in American
culture, Billie Holiday’s song ‘Strange Fruit’ (1939), is also the composition of a Jewish writer,
Abel Meeropol.
19. It is of course intellectually feasible that some of the victims of lynching in actuality perpetrated
the crimes attributed to them, but such speculation, particularly decades after the fact, is
irrelevant. Lynching is not a pre-emptive form of justice; it is an assertion of privilege that
removes race relations from the zone of justice by placing whites above and Blacks below the
category of law. This fact was most clearly demonstrated in 1955, when the (as yet unconvicted)
lynch mob that murdered Emmet Till pursued the 14-year-old not because of an actual crime
but because of the phantasm of one.
20. Opatoshu’s quotation from the New Testament echoes a similar strategy in Toomer’s Cane,
which concludes with an ex-slave, Father John, proclaiming, ‘Th sin whats fixed ... (Hesitates.)
... upon th white folks — ... f tellin Jesus — lies. O th sin th white folks ’mitted when they made
th Bible lie’ (‘Kabnis’, in Cane, pp. 116–17).
21. For more on the radical appropriation of Jesus in modern Yiddish culture, see Matthew B.
Hoffman’s book From Rebel To Rabbi: Reclaiming Jesus and the Making of Modern Jewish Culture
(Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2007). Neta Stahl’s forthcoming book on the uses
of Jesus in Hebrew-language modernism will further contribute to our understanding of this
aspect of the twentieth-century Jewish avant-garde.
22. Most notorious in this respect was Sholem Asch, who until his completion of a Christological
trilogy in the 1940s was Opatoshu’s counterpart as ‘house novelist’ at the rival Forverts newspaper,
as well as his primary rival on the Yiddish bestseller lists.
23. Although the similarities between Lintsheray and Toomer’s Cane, both of which appeared in
book form in 1923, are unquestionably serendipitous, the apparent allusion here to W. B. Yeats’s
famous 1919 poem ‘The Second Coming’ — ‘The darkness drops again but now I know | That
twenty centuries of stony sleep | Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, | And what
rough beast, its hour come round at last, | Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born’ — is more
likely deliberate.
24. Bashevis’s essay first appeared in Yiddish in the second issue of the New York literary journal
Svive, March–April 1943; his repudiation of a secular Yiddish culture in America was so strident
198 Marc Caplan
that the editors of the journal distanced themselves from his remarks. An English translation
of the essay prepared by Robert H. Wolf appeared as ‘Problems of Yiddish Prose in America’,
Prooftexts, 9 (1989), 10.
25. My reading of Lintsheray was enriched by participating in a reading group for the story organized
at the Yugntruf Yidish-vokh (‘Yiddish-week’) in August 2012. My thanks to Gitl Schaechter-
Viswanath, who organized the sessions, and the other readers for their insights and engagement
with this narrative. My understanding of ‘belated’ realist strategies was strengthened by
conversations with my colleague Elisabeth Strowick. My wife, Brukhe Lang Caplan, provided
immediate and essential advice that elevated my translations of the story from ‘amateurish’ to
‘serviceable’. My friend Christopher (Yoni) Apap provided tremendous help and advice with
sources on African-American literature, lynching in American culture, and Waldo Frank. Most
of all, Tony Michels and Sara Nadal-Melsió provided insightful and encouraging readings of this
manuscript in draft form, for which I remain grateful to them both.
C h a p t e r 14
v
Mentshn un khayes (1938): Snapshots

of Jewish life in America and Europe
Astrid Starck-Adler
In 1938, on the eve of the Holocaust, a collection of fifty-eight short stories

appeared in New York. The collection opens with outcasts in New York trying
to survive and ends with an uprising against a pogrom in Warsaw, mirroring the
historical situation in Europe at the eve of the Holocaust. The title, Mentshn un
khayes (People and Animals), indicates a connection between men and animals.1 In
the twentieth century it becomes a main theme in expressionist art: there the artist
identifies himself with hunted and suffering animals, especially with ‘The Red
Deer’ (‘das rote Wild’), as it can be found in Trakl’s poems, Franz Marc’s paintings,
or Leoš Janáček’s music.2 Animals as a metaphor for the pains and sorrows of the
Jewish people are also present in Yiddish literature.3 Another example showing the
common tragic destiny between men and animals is to be found in Chaim Soutine’s
paintings representing skinned animals, which inspired Francis Bacon’s work on
this topic; the word ‘skinned’ is used in the original French titles as in Le lapin
écorché or Le bœuf écorché.4 The innovation for the author of the collection, Joseph
Opatoshu, who was familiar with nature and animals through his background, is
to depict them as other beings with common feelings and faculties.5 He establishes
a kind of ‘humanimal’ world, which is to be found in Kaf ka’s animal stories and
which is ref lected by Deleuze’s and Guattari’s concept of the ‘becoming-animal’.6
Mo Yan, the winner of the 2012 Nobel Prize for Literature, who grew up in a
peasant environment and whose work pays attention to animals in our human
society, illustrates this fusional relationship pointed out by Opatoshu.7
As early as 1907 Opatoshu immigrated and settled in New York, where he
became famous for his novels whose plots were set either in Poland or in the
United States. In Mentshn un khayes, he brings together both continents and gives
snapshots of Jewish life in Europe and in America where changes occurred: these
can be seen through the shaping of characters whose Jewishness resides sometimes
only in the name. Opatoshu uses movie lighting with close-ups and f lashbacks8 on
characters, who sometimes melt into the rain and grey or are reduced to a simple
ridiculous silhouette.9 Thus Jewish identity seems to be in abeyance. No more
can life be understood as a complete process evolving from birth to death, with a
beginning and an end. On the contrary, it is made out of patches, glances, sketches.
200 Astrid Starck-Adler
This is ref lected by the non-chronological order of the stories put side by side,
which draw a picture either of people from the Polish shtetl, or of American urban
and country people of different ages, male and female, belonging mostly to the
lower classes in America; they give sparing details of their behaviour, relationship,
difficulties, feelings, hopes, and disappointments. Each of them provides the reader
with a brief and fragmentary insight into the life and time of the characters; each
of them begins in medias res and has an open ending. Put together, they built a
kind of kaleidoscope (mostly in black and white) of the human condition in the
sense Heidegger makes use of the word Dasein (i.e. to be thrown into the world
to die) or Camus of the Myth of Sisyphus. The geographical location and natural
environment; the time of day and night; the meteorological conditions, mostly
with rain and snow; the religious, sociological, and historical background; the
psychological state — all this establishes the frame for a portrayal made of dashes,
touches, and strokes. The style is more evocative than persuasive and leaves a great
space for the reader’s active role: to assemble the scattered pieces.10 Opatoshu is
far from didacticism and from demonstration. He operates with a juxtaposition of
Poland and America, men and women, men and animals, so that the unspeakable
appears in Wittgenstein’s meaning of the word.11 Moreover, Opatoshu’s writing is
part of a literature born on an immigration soil, first as a continuum with the left
and lost home, perceived as brand of origin, recollection, and memory; second as
a point of departure for a creation which has to ‘take over’ a new and unknown
land, a land which has to be explored by language(s). Thus the American Yiddish
production becomes part of the Yiddish World Literature, as Opatoshu points out
at the end of his life, expressing the will to create the novel of the Jewish World
People.12 Yiddishophonia13 is for me the concept, which sums up Yiddish literature
and culture all over the world (i.e. not only in Poland, America, and Israel, but also
in South Africa, South America, and Australia), a domain which is not yet fully
explored and to which Opatoshu contributed in a significant way.
Written between 1934 and 1938, some of the short stories were first published in
the Yiddish New York daily paper Der Tog (Day), to which Opatoshu contributed for
forty years as soon as it appeared in 1914. At the crossroads of two worlds, Opatoshu
excels in exploring and introducing into Yiddish literature new territories14 and
geographical and human spaces, as well as paradoxical but shared worlds. None
of them is hermetically sealed and the boarders between them are porous.15 After
symbolist writers like Baudelaire, naturalists like Gorki or Strindberg, expressionists
like Brecht or Hasenclever, or adepts of the New Objectivity,16 Opatoshu pushed
to the literary rank people from the underworld, prostitutes,17 and other ‘wretched
of the earth’.18 He was not the only one. Sholem Asch with his play Got fun nekome
(God of Vengeance), produced first in German by Max Reinhardt at the Deutsches
Theater in Berlin, and later Isaac Bashevis Singer with many of his stories dealt both
with similar topics found in European literature at the same time.19 But is literature
not, as it has always been, a grove where outcasts and outsiders find refuge?20
In his collection, Opatoshu deals with fundamental themes in Jewish life; they
are valid on both sides of the ocean, some of them having a universal echo. His tour
de force is to be able to ‘make a long story short’ in emphasizing some visual details
M entshn un khayes 201
rather than psychological aspects. By doing so he develops his own technique:

conciseness based on sharp and quick pen strokes, which goes straight to the point.
This fits perfectly into the constraint of writing for a newspaper. Did it inf luence
the choice of matters too? And did it shape Opatoshu’s style? One cannot forget
that he was also a journalist. He became a real master in the genre of the very short
story.21 In Mentshn un khayes the author combines two major elements, Goethe’s
unerhörte Begebenheit (‘the happening of a startling occurrence’)22 with the banality
of everyday life or Alltäglichkeit, as Heidegger puts it. Thanks to the dynamic of
this bipolarity, the story moves towards the point: thus it follows the highway, but
to reach the destination, it has to take byways, which are materialized in the text
by repetitions; these are quite more than just a stylistic device.23 They are used in
a polysemic way. First, they introduce a continuum with older written narratives,
closer to the oral (Mayse bukh,24 Sippurei-mayses of Rabbi Nakhman Bratzlaver).25
Second, they are the expression par excellence of modernity: of mechanization and
robotization,26 of peregrination and wandering.27 Movement becomes fundamental
for men as well as for animals; movement is life, walking too.28 The absurdity of
existence recalls Kaf ka, but perhaps more so Beckett because of the laughter it
generates: Opatoshu combines absurdity with humour. Third, it introduces a kind
of resistance. In the stories it is obvious that America is neither the utopian country
where gold is f looding the streets, nor a negative utopia that destroys dreams.
No, there merge counter spaces, created hand to mouth, taken over and later on
abandoned: they are the ones that mark the boundaries of human ‘agitation’. These
heterotopias, to use Foucault’s concept,29 give an unsuspected and unpredictable
consistency to characters — immigrants — in search of a new identity: the author’s
metaphor of wind and smells is appropriate for this changing and volatile state; it
favours metamorphoses, expressed also by a twofold intertextuality referring on the
one hand to Yiddish writers and on the other to the author himself.30 Thus a new
Yiddish space, a hybrid one, is created and defined.
The fifty-eight stories of Mentshn un khayes can be divided into three groups,
although they don’t build separate chapters. The first group of stories includes
sixteen of them, set either in Opatoshu’s home place and country, in Poland, or in
other parts of Eastern Europe; here we find stories about smugglers, horse thieves,
Hassidim, Jewish life in the shtetl, marriages, and pogroms.31 The second group
contains thirty-eight stories, which take place in New York or in the American
countryside, the Catskill or isolated farms.32 Urban space, Jewish immigrants
as outcasts, peddlers, or farmers with their wives and children characterize this
group, although the stories themselves deal with similar topics to the first group,
but ‘revisited’ by a new environment. The third group concerns four stories
located in America where the old home is brought back to memory, plays a role
as a continuum for the Gerer Hassidim, or is visited by the prodigal son.33 The
collection has a rigorous composition, which reveals Opatoshu’s aim and ambition:
to create a new literary home for a new Jewish identity between the past and the
future. Four stories build its frame, the first two and the last two, which echo each
other. Beginning with an American story called ‘Birger’ (Citizen), the collection
emphasizes the belonging to the New World, but ending with a Polish anti-Semitic
one, ‘Afn Gzhibov’ (On Grzybowska), it shows the author’s commitment towards
the historical events at the eve of the Holocaust. The second story, ‘Kivke ganev’
(Kivke the Thief ), relating anti-Semitism in Poland, and the last but one, ‘Sforim’
(Holy Books), focusing on the destruction of Jewish books in New York, build a
kind of chiasmus inside the frame.
The first story, set in New York on Lafayette Street during the aftermath of
the economic crisis of 1929, is not the only one on poverty, starvation, and being
outcast, but it depicts precisely what it means to be homeless and on the street. The
connection Opatoshu introduces here between men and animals through sniffing
lets the outcasts appear like stray dogs or forest animals34 sitting on watch:
A fat (tsevaksener) person came from Broadway [...] The slouching man’s nostrils
shivered. He could sense a man next to him [...]. The fat one [...] poked [...] with
his nose the other man, like animals sense each other.35 (pp. 7–8)
The same scene will be repeated when the third character arrives, and then, inter
estingly, all three have the same behaviour:
The three people looked at each other; they did not speak and nosed each other,
like dogs. (p. 10)
This state of being on the lookout can be compared to Deleuze’s state of ‘becoming-
animal’. The otherness, which characterizes the animal, is shown through a non-
linguistic language, a language beyond words, where the body with its sensual
faculty of olfaction, more developed with animals, stands in the foreground. The
characters are nameless, thus anonymous, but have a specific bearing: the first is
‘slouching’ (‘geboygn’), ‘thin and long’ (‘din un lang’), the second ‘fat’ (‘tsevaksen’),
the third ‘broader than higher’ (‘breyter vi hekher’). ‘Birger’ is like a pantomime.
The story is also a model of intertextual writing, combined with literary devices
specific to theatre, surrealism, and ‘madness’.36 It is a masterpiece and it contains
the author’s Weltanschauung, his understanding of life, art, and humankind. It can
be seen as a modern Hassidic tale full with wonders, but in a godless world (one of
the character ‘spits on the world’). It reminds the figure of the ‘Simpleton’ (‘tam’)
in Rabbi Nakhman Bratzlaver’s tale, ‘Der khokhem un der tam’ (The Wise and
the Simpleton),37 who tells his wife to bring him the most extraordinary dishes
and drinks while they are so poor that they hardly have a crust of bread to eat
and water to drink.38 His simpleness (tmimes) lets him work miracles. So does our
starving and outcast character in ‘Birger’, a kind of luftmensch, soaked with rain
and starving to death. He has not even bread or water. Nevertheless he calls the
waiter and orders a meal. As in the Babylonian Talmud (Taanit 23a), where Honi
the Circle-Drawer draws a circle and puts himself in the middle to speak to God,
the nameless figure draws a circle for the table and the chair and begins to eat.
Different kinds of traditions in storytelling melt here together. Grimm’s fairytale,
‘The Wishing-Table’, belongs to it.39 Opatoshu demonstrates in an extraordinary
way how a tale can be retold. He adds a new dimension in mixing two levels,
realism and surrealism, so that the reader gets baff led. Seeing his fellow sitting and
eating, the one standing thinks: surely he is mad! But immediately after, a fumet
tickles his nostrils. So he asks him if he can share his chicken. Even a scrawny cat
is attracted by this mouth-watering smell. And that is when a third man arrives,
wearing two coats, two jackets, and two trousers, with a bag on his back. The bag
is filled with food ‘like a whole restaurant’. While the two starving fellows empty
nearly the miraculous bag:
‘You, guys, have eaten not badly. You have emptied (gemakht a “shvarts-shabes”)
the entire bag’ (p. 11),
the third seems to be only hungry for literature:
‘I know by heart Bovshover, Rosenfeld, Frug, and the entire English poetry
I also know by heart. And you [...]’
‘[...] We don’t read English. We read Yiddish papers. Why shall we bother
with poetry? We have to think where to spend the night.’ (pp. 10–11)
And yet he has everything one needs in this world. Not only has he provided the
outcasts with food, he has also for them a place to sleep. A true prophet Eli who
comes straight out of poetry! Is it a tale? Is it reality? In the end, the reader himself is
uncertain. There is a subtle coming and going between life and fiction, shouldered
by the third character, a very enigmatic figure, who wears double clothes. While
the ‘real’ characters are staging life, the poets are fictionalizing it. The magic power
of imagination gives the whole story a surrealistic touch.
Unfortunately America is not di goldene medine, the expected Eldorado. But worse
is Poland, the country that has been left behind. In the second story, ‘Kivke the
Thief ’, a circular one, Polish peasants are going to lynch Kivke in the same way as
they had lynched his father years ago who, like him, had been defending a fellow
Jew. Kivke, who returned to Mlave after the First World War to see his mother
and fiancée, but in vain, decides to leave the place. The screaming he hears all of a
sudden reminds him of his dying father and he runs to help. In this very orchard, he
sees a Jew prevented from moving lest a dog attack him. He kills the peasants’ dog,
but cannot escape the pack of anti-Semites who want his death. So, Kivke ‘comes
back to the crime scene’: the story repeats itself. It illustrates the Nietzschean concept
of the ‘Eternal Return’, as well as the Freudian idea of the ‘repetition of the same’.
While the first story has a playful dimension, the second one reminds the reader of
the conditions in which Jews have to live — to die would be more appropriate. At
the same time, it emphasizes a form of behaviour that has been denied to Jews later
on: defence and self-defence. This is also the message carried out by the last story
called ‘Afn Gzhibov’ and based on a pogrom in Warsaw. There the hero, Moyshe
Klafter, is building his ‘Tent’ (‘sukkah’) for the forthcoming holiday. Then, when
all the Jews are enjoying the traditional feast, evoked by delicious smells, the Polish
anti-Semites come to kill them. Moyshe Klafter exhorts his fellow Jews to defend
themselves: ‘Hit back! (‘Tsurikshlogn!) he shouts, and upon this last word, repeated
by all the Jews, the collection ends. In retrospect, this sounds like a precognition
of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The last story but one, set in America and called
‘Holy Books’, depicts an iconoclastic event inside the Jewish community. This
episode can be seen as a less tragic happening than the auto-da-fé that took place
in Germany in 1933. Nevertheless, the criticism of such a sacrilegious circumstance
is shown through the reaction of the character. Trives, a young man living in New
York, is devastated when he sees a pile of books thrown out on the street. First he
thinks that Jews would never do such a thing. Then he is horrified to notice that
these are Jewish books, mainly holy ones. Just through a few names — Babylonian
and Jerusalem Talmud, Kuzari,40 Bialik — Opatoshu is able to show how centuries
of Jewish erudition and creation up to our days are annihilated at once. Thus Trives
is brought back to the First World War, as Jews were forced by Russians to leave
their home, and he remembers his father leaving everything behind but his books.
With youngsters who help him, he ‘shleps’ the books to a nearby synagogue on
100th Street. He is devastated by this world where God is dead: ‘No God’s abiding
face, image, spirit’ (‘Keyn ponem, keyn partsef, keyn tseylem-Elohim’; p. 284). This
statement will become extremely telling after the Holocaust, while here it is already
an anticipatory vision and interpretation of the future.
The importance of books in Jewish culture throughout the centuries is mentioned
in several stories, in a playful, serious, or tragic manner. In ‘Tremps’ (Tramps), a
story on outcasts in New York, one of the characters advises his companion to put
a briefcase full of books under his arm and glasses on his nose when he is on the
road, in order to look like a professor and inspire respect. In a historical story called
‘Nisim’ (Miracles), set in the early modern period, a young scholar, Reb Yankev, is
the guest of the rabbi of Prague, who possesses treasures in his library. The narrator
enumerates the most precious books and thereby evokes a wonderful atmosphere
of book production, studying, and knowledge. The young man comes to sell his
father’s books, but the samples are requisitioned by the customs before finally being
returned to him. He was just lucky, because books were most of the time in danger
of being censored, especially Jewish ones.
An interesting story is the one called ‘Der nayer testament’ (The New Testament),
because it recounts the particular role women were supposed to play in reading
and telling stories. Yiddish prints, compilers claimed, were made for them, since
they had no knowledge of Hebrew.41 Later on, they were also the ones who read
‘forbidden’, i.e. non-Yiddish and non-Jewish, books. As a child at home, Mirl, the
main character, was reading her brother’s Yiddish books and was hiding from her
parents, like her brother who read mainly Hebrew books. She became a voracious
reader of ‘popular novels for women’ written by Yiddish writers mentioned in
the story: Mendele Moykher Sforim, Ozer Bloyshteyn (Blaustein), Dovid Moyshe
Hermalin, Dineson.42 One of them, Hermalin, translated and adapted European
literature in Yiddish. Maybe she read authors like Jules Verne, Leo Tolstoy, Victor
Hugo43 in translation. Later, in a dark basement apartment in New York, as it is to
be found in naturalistic novels, Mirl, now a mother, transforms her poor home into
a welcoming magic illuminated cave, full with travellers, wonders, and laughter.
How? By telling stories. But the children, Khane and the disabled Velvel, no longer
want to hear the same story about cannibals wanting to eat a traveller who pretends
to be God because he can take out his teeth, while the cannibals cannot.44 They
want her mother to retell them her readings. So she will cheer them up, while
she is stitching on cardboards the buttons the two of them are sorting out. As in
‘Birger’, the intertextuality combines ancient and modern narration, popular tales
as well as Opatoshu’s own writing — Aleyn (Alone). In Aleyn, the female hero Sore
‘endorses’ alternatively the roles she encounters in her readings, wearing different
clothes and trying multiple identities.45 So do the children, who invest the times
and spaces their mother liberates for them through the stories she reads or tells.
But in return they promise to do their mother’s work, i.e., to stitch buttons on
cardboards, so that she has plenty of time for them. She is a magician, a demiurge,
opening for her children the golden door of the mysterious world of imagination
and metamorphoses: ‘The three underwent it together, as if everything took place
in the basement among the sacks with rags, among the tailors’ oilcloths, among
the heaps of buttons’ (p. 44). Through storytelling, she establishes a real ‘Bridge of
Longing’ not only with the literary Yiddishland, but also with World Literature.46
The impact of reading and the consequences in life are tremendous. Mirl’s husband,
though he doesn’t prevent his wife from reading, explains to her that her son’s
disability is a divine punishment for her unclean readings. This fact is mirrored in
the title, ‘The New Testament’, a sacrilegious book Mirl never read. For nine years,
she was terrified of reading the New Testament her brother had at home. Now,
in the basement apartment, the children find it under the mattress amongst the
other books she took out of the library earlier in the morning. They know that it is
‘forbidden’, but they push their mother ‘to fulfil a dream’ and they promise to keep
their mouths shut... if she buys them an ice cream. Like ‘Birger’, it is a wonderful
story, very visual and, though short, very dense. Surely there is a touch of humour,
but also a putting into perspective and a de-dramatization of this canonical
Christian text.
The example of the starving outcast and the storytelling Mirl are a hidden way of
‘smuggling’ cultural values, past and present, into the New World and of showing
how life and fiction, life and literature are tightly connected to each other. In his
stories, Opatoshu enables the reader to recall Yiddish life as it was and to see Yiddish
life as it is now — through the author’s eyes. One story throws light on the other
so that the reader gets a twofold perspective. ‘Rase’ (Race) echoes ‘Kivke’ and ‘Afn
Gzhibov’. The story deals with anti-Semitism in the new country and depicts how
a young boy has to face young racists he calls ‘Klansmen’ (‘klenikes’, i.e. members
of the Ku-Klux-Klan), who insult and injure him, claiming that ‘they are going to
kill all the Jews, the Catholics and the Blacks’ (p. 99). So Edgar shouts back: ‘We
will kill all the Klansmen before’ (ibid.). Helen, his unsuspecting mother, who was
enjoying the peaceful countryside with its delicious smells, has to face the mother
of the young ‘Klansmen’ who spits in front of her and says: ‘We hate a Jewish mug,
and you are creeping into our midst!’ (translation; p. 100). Helen thought she would
be accepted in Deville, although it is a town where Jews were not welcome, because
neither did she look like a ‘Greenhorn’ nor did she speak English with a Yiddish
(‘Jargon’) accent. This shows that assimilation doesn’t prevent anti-Semitism and
brings into question the ideas of the Enlightenment.47 The attitude of Edgar, who
fills his pockets with stones in order to throw them at the ‘Klansmen’, is similar to
that of Kivke and the Jews ‘afn Gzihbov’: self-defence as a response to aggression.
It is worth knowing that the Ku-Klux-Klan was created in the Night of Christmas
(1865), a night which was also dangerous for Jews in villages and shtetlekh all
over Europe. On Christmas Eve, Jews used to play cards to stay awake and keep
watch. Opatoshu, who was born at Christmas, wrote about a dozen stories on this
topic, and two of them are to be found in Mentshn un khayes.48 In those stories the
characters experience the atavistic fear caused by centuries of anti-Semitic exactions
and expect a catastrophe. It is going to happen, but it will have nothing to do with
anti-Semitism. While in ‘Oysgevortslt’ (Uprooted), located in New York, a lonely
coalman and his horse are badly injured by a truck and the wagon is destroyed; in
‘In der nakht fun Nitl’ (On Christmas night), set in the Carpathian Mountains,
oxen get lost in the frosty snow after an accidental fire and break their necks.
Opatoshu shows the concern for the living animals and the great pain for their loss.
In ‘Oysgevortslt’, the coalman’s feelings and empathy for his horse let him consider
it as his companion, his alter ego.49 Since he lost his wife, Leyzer feels uprooted
and now his horse will go too. He speaks to it like Tevye in Sholem Aleichem’s
Tevye the Dairyman. They have a common fate: both are injured, both are suffering,
both are crying:
This is not an arrangement of man and beast, nor a resemblance; it is a deep
identity, a zone of indiscernibility more profound than any sentimental
identification: the man who suffers is a beast, the beast that suffers is a man.
This is the reality of becoming.
So says Deleuze in his Essay on Francis Bacon.50 Hearing his horse crying in the
stable, Leyzer brings it into his little house, close to his bed. But the huge moving
shadows of the horse, which the f lames cast on the wall, terrify Leyzer, who then
whips the horse, which rears on its hurt leg and cries. The word ‘cry’ used by Leyzer
several time insists on the identity between them. How could he behave like this?
Leyzer cuddles the horse, strokes it, hugs it, and says: ‘Come on, don’t cry, my
old friend (pgire mayne), come on, don’t cry! I am sick, you are sick, we both have
already become useless (oysgevirtshaft)’ (p. 65).
A rupture occurred in the established identity, a rupture, which will be under
lined by the Jewish countrymen who barge into Leyzer’s little house to take him to
a delicious traditional meal and to play cards, as usual in New York on Christmas
Day. Seeing the horse, they shout out: ‘What is it, Leyzer, couldn’t you find a
better roommate?’ (ibid.). This sentence is interesting, because implicitly it makes
reference to the ‘becoming-animal’, a situation which only the reader knows.
Seen from the outside the situation seems abnormal, humorous, or completely
surrealistic. As Deleuze points out, in Kaf ka’s Metamorphosis, Gregor feels strange
because of the way his parents are looking at him. They are the ones who establish
the abnormality. The connection with animals, with horses especially, appears in
different stories. So in ‘Ferd’ (‘Horse’), the dying horse looks at its master Fishl
with sad eyes asking him for help. In ‘In a shturem’ (In a Tempest), father and son
cannot but see how the newly bought horse after ten years of saving and starving
is struck dead by lightening. In ‘Untervegns’ (On the Road), Abraham the cart
driver, who has to carry goods to Mlave, is caught in a freezing night in the snowy
forest and wolves attack them. One horse has already been bitten to death. Just
before, Abraham saw a little white devil riding on one of his horses and knows
that this supernatural being is a bad omen. The characters, men and horses, are
devastated by their unavoidable fate; both of them are helpless, and they know it.
Other stories, on the contrary, are based on the mythological and legendary aspect
of the horse: sensuality and seduction. In ‘Shmugl’ (Smuggle), Hershl, who has to
deliver smuggled fish in Mlave before nightfall, sees in the forest, unlike Tevye on
his way back to Boyberik, a young beautiful woman, an elf out of a fairytale, who
asks him to assist her in smuggling cigars. Hershl helps her to sit next to him on the
bench and he begins to ‘burn’:
The horse halted. Night winds were cooling its burning sides, its shot nostrils.
The horse began to neigh. It turned its head back, watched with its right eye
how its master canoodled with Malka. (p. 130)
The dichotomy between the horse which cools down and Hershl who is burning
confers on the story a humorous end and points out the complicity between
the master and its horse which, modestly, looks at him with one eye. Whereas
in ‘Shmugl’ the horse winks to its master and to the reader, ‘Tsumorgns’ (The
Following Day) uses the horse as a symbol of deprivation. There a daughter whom
her father married off against her will runs away from her husband in the wedding-
night to meet up with her lover, a klezmer. As a punishment she is treated like a
recalcitrant horse, has to wear a saddle bow (‘ortshik’) around her neck and carry it
through the shtetl, while her father whips her and calls her a slut.
The reader in search of a specific marker in this collection will pay attention to
the role of olfaction and smells in both ‘European’ and ‘American’ stories. Not only
do they show the close connection between men and animals as pointed out in
‘Birger’ where the Deleuzean concept of the ‘becoming-animal’ is extraordinarily
at work, they are also a catalyst for memory and for sexual desire. Montaigne in
his Essays,51 Condillac in his Treatise,52 and Nietzsche in his last work, Ecce Homo,
pay a very special attention to this human faculty, which had been disregarded for
ages as an archaic animal remnant. The story of Nietzsche hugging and kissing
an exhausted and whipped horse in Turin shortly before his breakdown is well
known.53 Nietzsche, who uses animal metaphors in his work, claims: ‘My genius
lies in my nostrils’;54 he thus attributes to the nose an unrivalled sharpness and
the ability to experience what the eye cannot see. While Empiricism apprehends
the sensory experience as the ultimate departure point of our whole experience,
psychoanalysis finds a link between olfaction and sexuality, but adopts an ambiguous
attitude, being more in favour of the traditional negative perception.55 Nowadays,
investigations on the history of olfaction in philosophy, anthropology, and literature
point out its importance, which can no longer be denied.56 Opatoshu’s collection is
an interesting contribution to this literary field.57 Through odours and smells, the
main character of ‘Baginen’ (Dawn), all of a sudden, is reminded of his old home:
‘The cold air carried the aroma of plants, fresh greens, vegetables. It exhilarated
Hershl, brought him back to the little shtetl in Poland, where his parents used to
lease a vegetable garden’ (p. 193).
The cinematographic f lashback introduces a superimposition of time and space,
of verticality and horizontality, time becoming simultaneously past and present,
and space suppressing the geographical distance between America and Europe.
Thus the character receives an archaeological depth: he is made out of several strata
which are constituent of his understanding and interpretation of situations, events,
sensations and emotions. Opatoshu uses the f lashback as a technique to bring in

‘instantly’ complementary elements, which in a broken and split discourse cannot
be introduced as in a continuous one. Furthermore, he uses the language of the
body, which is involved in the process of smelling: ‘The nostrils were on guard,
they sensed smells, brought closer distant fields and even more distant countries’
(pp. 193–94). A progression towards the ‘becoming-animal’ this time could be the
presence of the visual image of sniffing only, without any element of comparison.
Whereas in ‘Baginen’ the smells provoke an instant memory, in ‘Der Amerikaner’
(The American), an extraordinary family saga in only five pages, the smells of the
old home do not burst in all of a sudden; they are present as a bedrock which
has followed Simkhe Magidson through his life since he was sixteen and left the
country. The persistence of memory and the headiness of smells lie in the repetition
and the variant of the word:
There remained smells (reykhes), distant smells of ripe cucumbers in the
vegetable garden behind the house, smells of young carrots, as well as a heavy
stench (gerukhn) that came from the tannery, from the father, from the brothers
and even from the living quarters. (p. 261)
The narrator uses two different words, one from Hebrew — ‘reykhes’ — and one of
Germanic origin — ‘gerukhn’. The word ‘reykhes’, which is used throughout this
collection, means ‘perfume’ and ‘lightness’, while the word ‘gerukhn’ is associated
with heaviness and an inescapable fate. While ‘reykhes’ is connected to natural
smells, ‘gerukhn’ distinguishes people. This latter word appears only in two stories,
‘Der Amerikaner’ and ‘Tsumorgns’, where it is connected to people with whom the
character doesn’t want to live.
Opatoshu’s world is a complex and therefore a fascinating one. It moves within
a space located at the crossroads between two continents, two worlds — the under
and the upper world58 — and two ‘species’, men and animals: thus the interesting
structure of juxtaposing which he creates, and which is mentioned above, ref lects
the ambivalence with which he is dealing. The short stories present ‘hybrid’ human
beings, because they are made from different strata: from nature and intellect (what
Opatoshu calls ‘untermentsh’ and ‘oybermentsh’), which are not dissociated, from a
twofold space, Poland and the United States, from a twofold time, past and present.
Opatoshu is fascinated by the ‘duplicity’ of man (‘er hot geleyent dem mentshn fun
tsveyf lakhn mitamol’)59, for which he tries to find an appropriate expression, an
expression which doesn’t freeze it. He finds it in snapshots, which characterize his
style and in metaphors he borrows for his characters from one of the four elements:
the air. Air is the quintessence of life. Air is uncatchable and ephemeral. So are smells
and winds: they invade the body while the wind is caressing it. Smells and winds
can be seen as a parallel to cinematographic snapshots. They are used in a polysemic
way. Their first characteristic is transience: they are volatile, intangible, multiple,
they are liable to change and movement. The writer tries to create through words
and capture in words the evanescence and the movement, which for cinema is so
easy. Smells and winds are leitmotivs, which connect the three groups to each other:
they indicate sensuality and awaken sexual desire.60 Emblematic are the titles ‘April
reykhes’ (April smells) and ‘September-vintn’ (September winds), which become
a metaphor throughout the collection. Wind is the word used for a young elusive
woman. ‘Yosl is chasing a wind [Mirriam] in the field’ (p. 175), says the narrator
in ‘Tseakerte felder’ (Ploughed Fields). There is a fundamental difference between
the European and the American stories. In ‘Tsumorgns’, the father says about his
adulterous daughter: ‘A young beautiful woman has a wind in her head, one has to
get rid of this wind’ (p. 104). The American story, ‘September Winds’, in contrast,
relates a light and playful evening, when two young f lirtatious women let a young
man kiss them and then escape. They are like a whirlwind. He is the bird and
they are the wings. In ‘Tseakerte felder’, the author comes back to the ‘becoming-
animal’ he introduced in ‘Birger’: ‘They looked at and sensed each other, inhaled
each other’s smells [...] Yosl needed to breathe and was unhappy that Miriam was
not cold running water, which he would drink to the bottom’ (p. 176).
Air is an element, which generates transgression and brings together man and
woman in the institution of marriage. The most interesting illustration of the
antagonism between a platonic transgression and marriage is the story called ‘A
rebetsn’ (The Rabbi’s Wife), which takes place in the New York countryside and
narrates her two lives, the weekly life when she is wooed by all the men, especially
by a pianist with whom she sings Negro Spirituals and Yiddish folksongs, and the
Sunday life, in the presence of her husband, the rabbi, when she becomes a pious
and shy woman, the rabbi’s wife, fully dressed in black. The metamorphosis is
grandiose. Opatoshu has the taste and the sense for acting and cinema. One should
not forget that his son David was a great actor. In ‘April reykhes’, located in Poland,
Pinkhes, who is under the inf luence of spring smells, is attracted by the married
Sorele, who is neglected by her husband. The description of their encounter is
a delicate and silken one, and the suspense for the reader will last until the end.
Then the reader can decide whether it was good or bad to resist. Stories in which
traditional marriages occur are not omitted and are set either in a shtetl or on a
farm: the daughter has nothing to say and even if she tries to be rebellious, she will
very soon fall into line. She is an object of exchange which her father will marry
to a life enemy to make peace with him, as in ‘Tsumorgns’ (The Following Day);
she is an interchangeable object and has to replace her sister who died in childbirth
in order to be a mother for the orphan, as in ‘Heys geborn’ ( Just born) and ‘Lebn’
(Life). In the American stories where a man and a woman agree to get married, love
turns unfortunately into hate. This is the case for one story set in Canada called
‘In a hek’ (In a Godforsaken Place), in which the patriarchal husband threatens to
leave his wife if she gives birth to a third girl. Opatoshu depicts the ‘deconstruction’
of love and its change into hate. This happens especially in the countryside and in
farming milieus where life is difficult and the people work very hard all day long.
A constant feature throughout the collection is the major role of women/daughters
as ‘catalysts for transgression’, whereas men are tenacious tradition-holders. Did the
author revisit the Polish past from an ‘American’ point of view, or did he find in the
Polish past indices for the American present? There is one main difference between
the two continents: the answer to transgression, for which there is no mercy in the
old home. Opatoshu juxtaposes the two stories ‘Tsumorgns’, with the punishment
of the adulterous daughter/wife, and ‘Erev khasene’ (On the Eve of the Wedding),
where the bride f lirts for the last time with her two jealous ‘lovers’ outside the
farm before getting married for good to one of them, the one she doesn’t love,
she says. Opatoshu, who knows how to make a long story short, likewise knows
how to make a short story long in the reader’s imagination. ‘Tsumorgns’ shows
that the author is not looking backwards to an ‘idyllic past’, but to a past which is
‘human, all too human’. Transgressing the margins and barriers takes place inside
the Jewish community. It mostly has to do with religious or moral barriers erected
to prevent ‘illegal’ seduction and sexuality. Marriage as a common denominator of
both worlds will function like a pillar and a seismograph: interestingly, there is not
one story in the collection, which shows a previous ‘idyllic’ state of this institution.
Marriage doesn’t provide protection against extra-marital desire. The different
ways in which desire is handled may indicate the historical period of the story. If
the woman is the one who makes the first move, very often, the man’s reaction
is fear and escape. ‘Nisim’, which takes place centuries ago in Prague, depicts the
same situation as ‘Aleks un Rut’ (Alex and Ruth), which takes place in modern
times: a woman is attracted to a man who is unresponsive. In both cases there is an
external reason, which has been interiorized. In ‘Nissim’, Reb Yankev runs away
from Sorele and thus overcomes sin and the evil instinct; in ‘Alex and Ruth’, sin
has ‘disappeared’ and has been replaced by ‘reason’: ‘Alex, who wanted to keep his
distance from women, made an arrangement with his brain rather than with his
senses that men did not have to be in love with them, because Strindberg hated
them and Weininger hated them’ (p. 190).
The non-religious interpretation ref lects a profound change in society and in
gender relations, which cannot be seen as emancipation on men’s part. For Alex,
who is an intellectual, a woman is more of a trouble than something else. He doesn’t
want to respond to the advances of Ruth, who, in his eyes, is too free and will
prevent him from writing his life work like Hugo’s famous resonating novel Notre
Dame de Paris. 1482 (1831). The dichotomy between life and literature here is clearly
defined. Actually, this story is a counterpart to the others and important for their
understanding. In that context, Alex doesn’t seem to be a spokesman for Opatoshu,
an adept of sensualism.
In his multiple and dense collection, Opatoshu shows a perfect mastery of topics
and style, a great variety of subjects, which goes along with a strong compositional
unity. As a fine expert on Europe and America, he succeeds in giving shape and
life to characters and events in both continents; as an innovator, he creates an
original literary landscape, which will become a milestone in Yiddish literature.
His spare but striking assembling of words, combining life and fiction, realism
and surrealism, opens up for the attentive reader the field of surprise, questioning,
and inventiveness. If movement and repetition characterize the human condition,
identity follows and ref lects them. In Opatoshu’s collection, Jewish identity, in
Poland as well as in America, between tradition and modernity, is shown and
re-shown according to the religious, social, and historical context. The main focus
lies on the reading of the past to build up the future. What Opatoshu does is far
from nostalgia and transfiguration. Jewish identity ref lects the human condition as
such.
Notes to Chapter 14
1. Josef Opatoshu, Mentshn un khayes (New York: Kooperativer folks-farlag fun internatsionaln
arbeter ordn, 1938). The quotations will refer to this edition and the page numbers will be given
in brackets. This title recalls John Steinbeck’s tragic novel Of Mice and Men (1937), considered as
a typical novel of the American Dream, but which ends up in misery and dereliction. This aspect
of human existence has been most described by authors who have a deep insight into human
distress and solitude, such as Faulkner, Kaf ka, and also Opatoshu in this collection.
2. Georg Trakl, ‘Occidental Song’, in his Sebastian in Dream (Leipzig: The Kurt Wolff Publishing
House, 1917); Franz Marc, Red deer II (1912, Franz Marc Museum, Kochel at the Lake); Leoš
Janáček’s The Cunning Little Vixen (1924).
3. Cf. Mendele Moykher Sforim’s novel about an old horse, The Mare (Di kliatshe oder Tsar-baley-
khayim/A Pity for Living Creatures, 1873) or Sholem Aleichem’s short story ‘Rabtshik, a yidisher
hunt’ (Rabtshik, a Jewish Dog).
4. [Skinned] Rabitt (Le lapin écorché, 1925, Collection Barnes Foundation, Merion Station, Pa.,
USA) or Carcass of Beef (Skinned Beef, Le bœuf écorché, 1925, The Minneapolis Institute of Arts,
Minneapolis, USA).
5. Like for example empathy and the sense of smell, which acts as a catalyst for memory like
Proust’s ‘madeleine’.
6. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (London:
Athlone 1988), p. 237: ‘We believe in the existence of very special becomings-animal traversing
human beings and sweeping them away, affecting the animal no less than the human’.
7. Mo Yan, Life and Death are Wearing Me Out (New York: Arcade Publishing 2008).
8. Cf. John Dos Passos, Manhattan Transfer (1925), where the author, co-inventor of the urban novel,
introduces movie techniques into his writing, especially the movement. In Manhattan Transfer,
Dos Passos follows his characters from different origins and social classes through Manhattan.
9. In ‘Tremps’, the main figure is described as a scarecrow: ‘A tall, somewhat slouching man
was standing at the broad Allenby Road. He was standing like a scarecrow covered in snow,
which they had forgotten to remove after the end of the summer’ (p. 22). Tramp Literature is
characteristic of the USA. The most famous author was Jack London; later came Allen Ginzberg
and Jack Kerouac.
10. Cf. Umberto Eco, The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1979).
11. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus logico-philosophicus (1921), <http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/
5740> [accessed 5 February 2013].
12. Cf. Shlomo Bikl, Shrayber fun mayn dor (New York: Farlag Matones, 1958), p. 311:
Joseph Opatoshu’s dream was (he spoke about it many times with his close friends in
the last months of his life) to write the novel of the Jewish world nation. He, Opatoshu,
meant a novel, whose events should take place and characters should act in Poland,
America and Israel, and which should depict, first of all, the human breath, the passion
of the same quest shared by all Jewish communities for redemption, for ‘our redeemer’.
His novel on the messianic figure Bar Kokhba, considered by Rabbi Akiba as the Messiah, goes
into this direction.
13. Astrid Starck, ‘Das Jiddische als Kulturvermittlung und der Begriff der Jiddischophonie’,
TRANS. Internet Zeitschrift für Kulturwissenschaften: Innovations and Reproductions in Cultures and
Societies, 16. (2006). <http://www.inst.at/trans/16Nr/06_6/starck-adler16.htm> [accessed 5 Feb
ruary 2013].
14. Cf. Borekh Rivkin who calls this the ‘kmoy teritorye-iluzye’, Yoysef Opatoshus gang (Toronto:
Gershon Pomerantz, 1948), p. 13; cf. also Maria Delaperrière, Histoire littéraire de l’Europe médiane:
des origines à nos jours, (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1998), p. 481, who speaks about a territorial ersatz for
Opatoshu’s trilogy.
15. For example there is an overlapping of borders between the upper- and underworld, or inside
the religious community. In one story set in New York entitled ‘A yidisher “italyener” ’, the
character, apparently a pious man, who calls himself a ‘shtikl rov’, tries to seduce the rabbi’s wife.
16. The German painters Georges Grosz and Otto Dix, famous for their satirical and ferocious
depictions of ‘under’- and upper-class society, illustrated this movement very well. It was
perceived as Americanism: ‘The Neue Sachlichkeit is Americanism, cult of the objective, the
hard fact, the predilection for functional work, professional conscientiousness, and usefulness’
(Dennis Crockett, German Post-expressionism (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania University
Press, 1999), p. 1).
17. There is one story, ‘Bam Ist-River’ (At East River), about a former prostitute who is going to
give birth to a child, but is risking her life. Everybody in the poor rotten building they live in
is trying to help her. People from everywhere speak all kinds of languages and a little bit of
Yiddish to be able to communicate with an old Jew who is the only man there during the day.
Women come to borrow his ‘mezuze’ which they consider as a talisman.
18. To quote Frantz Fanon’s most famous work, Les Damnés de la Terre (1961, English 1963).
19. Cf. Joseph Sherman, ‘Revaluating Jewish Identity: A Centenary Tribute to Isaac Bashevis Singer
(1904–1991)’, in Midstream, 50 (2004), 2–7.
20. The ‘old-fashioned’ topics and writing techniques adopted by authors often pose a problem for
contemporary Yiddish literature.
21. Shlomo Bikl, Shrayber fun mayn dor (New York: Farlag Matones, 1958), p. 310: ‘Opatoshu, der
meyster fun der kurtser dertseylung’.
22. Goethe said to Johann Peter Eckermann on 29 January 1827: ‘Was ist eine Novelle anderes
als eine sich ereignete unerhörte Begebenheit’ (‘What else is a novella than the happening of
a startling occurrence’), in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Johann Peter Eckermann, Frédéric
Jacob Soret, Gespräche mit Goethe in den letzten Jahren seines Lebens, 1823–1832, 1. Theil (Leipzig:
Brockhaus 1836), p. 319.
23. Cf. Paul Klee, Hauptweg und Nebenwege (1929; Museum Ludwig, Cologne).
24. Cf. Un beau livre d’histoires. Eyn shön mayse bukh. Facsimile of the editio princeps of Basle (1602);
trans. with introduction and notes by Astrid Starck, Schriften der Universitätsbibliothek Bände
6/1 & 6/2, ed. by Ueli Dill and Martin Steinmann (Basle: Schwabe Verlag, 2004).
25. Rabbi Nakhman of Bratzlav, Seyfer Sippurey-mayses ( Jerusalem: Ksidey-Brat, 1991).
26. Cf. the iconic film Modern Times by Charlie Chaplin (1936).
27. It is interesting to analyse the different representations of the ‘Wanderer’, in Goethe’s poems,
then in Peretz’s play Bay nakht afn altn mark (A Night on the Old Market), and finally in Opatoshu’s
stories where he becomes a symbol of dereliction.
28. There are many novels about outcasts on the street or road at that time and also later on (for
example Alan Ginzberg and Jack Kerouac). In Kaf ka’s novel The Man who Disappeared (America or
Der Verschollene, 1927), two ‘walking’ figures appear: Delamarche (which means ‘On marching’
or ‘From the March/boarder’) and Robinson. See also Israel Rabon and his novel Di gas (The
Street, 1928), telling the story of a discharged soldier coming ‘home’ from the war and trying
to survive in the streets of Lodz; cf. Opatoshu’s short story Der navenadnik (announced in
Zamlbikher, vol. i as a novel to appear in Zamlbikher, vol. ii), Der geyer (The Walker), which is
an essay in Zamlbikher, 1 (1936), pp. 247–69), and Menakhem Boreysho’s Der geyer. Kapitin fun a
Lebn, I–II (New York: New York komitet, 1943), written from 1933 to 1942.
29. Michel Foucault, ‘Des espaces autres (conférence au Cercle d’études architecturales, 14 mars
1967)’, Architecture, Mouvement, Continuité, 5 (1984), 46–49.
30. The integration of animals in the text recalls Mendele Moykher Sforim’s novel about an old
horse, Di klyatshe, Sholem Aleichem’s short story ‘Rabtshik, a yidisher hunt’ as well as his novel
Tevye der milkhiker (Tevye the Dairyman). Concerning the author himself, one can quote ‘Kivke
ganev’ (12–16), which is a kind of short rewriting of A roman fun a ferd-ganev, where the main
figure is killed while defending his fellow Jews; or ‘Bam Ist-River’, where the mother with her
storytelling reminds Aleyn and the female hero Sore who assumes successively the different roles
she is just reading.
31. (2) Kivke ganev, 1937 (12–16); (13) In der nakht fun nitl, 1935 (66–71); (18) Katshanke, 1936
(92–96); (20) Tsumorgns, 1935 (102–05); (22) April-reykhes, 1936 (111–15); (23) ‘Shvartsn’ di
grenets, 1936 (116–20); (25) Shmugl, 1936 (126–30); (26) Shutfim, 1937 (131–35); (27) A farsheyt
heybl, 1937 (136–40); (28) Nisim, 1936 (141–44); (30) Bam yid hakoydesh, 1937 (150–54); (31) Der
ostrovtser, 1937 (155–59); (40) Untervegns, 1937 (198–201); (45) A varshever mayse, 1936 (221–25);
(54) Maftir, 1936 (266–70); (58) Afn Gzhibov, undated (285–88).
32. (1) Birger, 1935 (7–11); (3) In a regndikn ovnt, 1936 (17–21); (4) Tremps, 1935 (22–26); (5) A
shikh-putser, undated (27–31); (6) In a hek, 1936 (32–36); (7) Bam Ist-River, 1936 (37–41); (8)
Der nayer testament, 1937 (42–46); (9) A mame, 1936 (47–51); (10) Troyer, 1936 (52–55); (11) A
yidisher „italyener’, 1936 (56–60); (12) Oysgevortslt, 1936 (61–65); (14) In tsvantsik minut, 1937
(72–76); (15) Ferd, 1936 (77–81); (16) A bik, 1937 (82–86); (17) Dzhuno, 1934 (87–91); (19) Rase,
1937 (97–101); (21) Erev khasene, 1936 (106–10); (24) Heys geborn, 1936 (121–25); (32) Frayd, 1936
(160–64); (33) A shidekh, 1936 (165–69); (34) Yungvarg, 1937 (170–74); (35) Tseakerte felder, 1937
(175–78); (36) Zokn, 1936 (179–83); (41) A graduirung, 1936 (202–06); (37) September-vintn, 1937
(184–87); (38) Aleks un Rut, 1935 (188–92); (42) Yugnt, 1936 (207–10); (43) In a zaverukhe, 1936
(211–15); (44) A rebetsen, 1936 (216–20); (46) Genezn gevorn, 1937 (226–30); (47) In a shturem,
1936 (231–35); (48) Lebn, 1936 (236–40); (49) In a shul, 1935 (241–45); (50) Yikhes, 1934 (246–50);
(51) In shodn, 1936 (251–54); (52) Af relif, 1936 (255–59); (55) Shkheynim, 1936 (271–75); (56) A
gebrotene hun, 1936 (276–80); (57).
33. (29) A hesped, 1937 (145–49); (39) Baginen, 1937 (193–97); (53) An amerikaner, 1934 (260–65);
(57) Sforim, 1938 (281–84).
34. Bertolt Brecht characterizes the urban space as a jungle. Cf. one of his first expressionistic plays,
In the Jungle of Cities (Im Dickicht der Städte, 1921–24).
35. In his Traité des animaux (1755), Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (l’Abbé de Condillac, 1715–80)
develops the idea that men and animals feel the same way.
36. Madness will be a metaphor for adaptation or lack of adaptation to the situation; it will be
termed ‘a mish in kop’, to be off one’s rocker. It appears in several stories with a more or less
tragic background. Here it is rather comic.
37. Rabbi Nakhman Bratzlaver, Seyfer Sippurey-mayses ( Jerusalem: Khsidei-Brat, 1991), pp. 126–27,
Mayse 9.
38. Ibid., p. 126f.
39. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, ‘The Wishing-Table, the Gold-Ass, and the Cudgel in the Sack’
(‘Tischlein, deck dich!’), Children’s and Household Tales (Kinder- und Hausmärchen KHM 036). The
German edition appeared first in 1812. In this tale the character has a magic table:
‘Little table, spread thyself ’, [and] the good little table was at once covered with a clean
little cloth, and a plate was there, and a knife and fork beside it, and dishes with boiled
meats and roasted meats, as many as there was room for, and a great glass of red wine
shone so that it made the heart glad’ (<http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/
4391/> [accessed 5 February 2013])
This motif belongs to the Aarne and Thompson tale type 563.
40. The Kitab al Khazari, or ‘The book of refutation and proof on behalf of the most despised
religion’, is one of the most famous works written by the Jewish medieval philosopher and poet
Yehuda Halevi.
41. Astrid Starck, ‘Wie weiblich ist Jiddisch? Übersetzung und Metamorphose am Beispiel des
Maysebuchs (Basel 1602)’, TRANS: The Unifying Aspects of Culture, no. 15.7.2 (2004). <http://
www.inst.at/trans/15Nr/07_2/starck15.htm> [accessed 5 February 2013].
42. Ozer Bloyshteyn (or Blaustein, 1840–99), Dovid Moyshe Hermalin (1865–1921), and Yankev
Dineson (1856–1919) were popular writers who were said to write also for women. D. M.
Hermalin, who immigrated to New York, was a translator and especially an adapter of European
literature.
43. In ‘Alex un Rut’, the main character is a writer who wants to achieve his life novel like Hugo’s
Notre Dame de Paris.
44. There is a story with Resh Lakish and men-eating-men in the Babylonian Talmud, Treatise
Gittin, fo. 47a. This story shows its modernity because, at that time, false teeth didn’t exist.
45. See Mikhail Krutikov, Yiddish Fiction and the Crisis of Modernity, 1905 — 1914 (Stanford: Stanford
University Press 2001), p. 172:
Sorke has a double-sided vision of reality. She can often see something real, and at the
same time, imagine it as part of a dream [...] Sorke’s development is represented as a
perpetual change of personae as she moves from reality to imagination and then back
to a newly created reality, constantly searching for a new identity.
46. See David G. Roskies, A Bridge of Longing: The lost Art of Yiddish Storytelling (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1996).
47. See Israel Joshua Singer’s novel, Di mishpokhe Karnovski (The Family Karnovski, 1940–41) and
Max Horkheimer und Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno, Die Dialektik der Aufklärung (New York
and Los Angeles: Institute of Social Research, 1944).
48. Borekh Rivkin, Yoysef Opatoshus gang (Toronto: Gershon Pomerantz, 1948).
49. The numerous names, nicknames, and pet names which exist for horses in novels or stories about
horse smugglers is astonishing. See Nahum Stutchkoff, Der oytser fun der yidisher shprakh, ed. by
Max Weinreich (New York: YIVO, 1950).
50. Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, trans. by Daniel W. Smith (London, New
York: Continuum, 2003), p. 25.
51. Michel de Montaigne, Essays, chapter 55, ‘Of Smells’. <http://www.gutenberg.org/
files/3600/3600-h/3600-h.htm#link2HCH0055> [accessed 5 February 2013].
52. Inf luenced by Locke, Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1715–80) develops his Treatise of Sensations
(Traité des sensations, 1754) a doctrine of sensualism, creating a connection between sensation and
knowledge. He pays a special attention to olfaction.
53. In 2011, the filmmaker Béla Tarr made an extraordinary film (his last one he said), called The
Turin Horse, in which he traces what happened to the horse hugged by the philosopher. The
horse becomes the hero of the film and moves enigmatically on the screen, riding up and down
on the same route. The coach driver and his daughter get up and go to sleep day after day, from
the first to the sixth day. The horse stops eating. The well dries out. As in Opatoshu’s stories,
the spectator imagines the seventh day, i.e. the end, which is not shown.
54. Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo (Portland, Maine: Smith, 1911), p. 51.
55. Annick Le Guérer, ‘The Nose of Emma: History of Olfaction in Psychoanalysis’ (‘Le nez
d’Emma: Histoire de l’odorat dans la psychanalyse), Revue internationale de psychopathologie, 22
(1996), 339–85.
56. Annick Le Guérer, Scent, 2nd edn (New York: Random House 1994); Annick Le Guérer: ‘A
Philosophical and Psychoanalytical View’, Olfaction, Taste and Cognition, ed. by Catherine Rouby
and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 3–15.
57. Explored by Baudelaire and Proust; cf. Baudelaire’s famous poem ‘Correspondences’: ‘So do
all sounds and hues and fragrances correspond’ <http://www.f leursdumal.org/poem/103>
[accessed 5 February 2013].
58. For the underworld, Opatoshu has a famous literary and very realistic model, The Lower Depths
(1902), whose author, Maxim Gorki, lived through a miserable childhood.
59. Rivkin, Yoysef Opatoshus gang, p. 21. For Rivkin the ‘twofold’ origin of Opatoshu, whose
father belonged to erudite Jews and his mother to vald-yidn (forest Jews), connected to nature
and folklore, explains his ambivalence and his interest in it. But doesn’t every artist exclaim, as
Goethe puts it in Faust, ‘Two souls alas! are dwelling in my breast’?
60. Michael G. Kalogerakis, ‘The Role of Olfaction in Sexual Development’, Psychosomatic Medicine,
25 (1963), 420–32.
C h a p t e r 15
v
Literature for Children?

The Case of Joseph Opatoshu
Evita Wiecki
Introduction
When Yiddish secular textbooks began to appear at the beginning of the twentieth
century, their authors soon realized that there was a lack of suitable children’s
literature to include in such textbooks. Shmuel Niger, the leading ideologist of the
Yiddishist movement, stressed that the ‘task of creating a children’s literature in
our language is seen ever more as an important national and communal goal that
we must hasten to make a reality’.1 Most Yiddish writers took up that challenge in
the interwar era, the period generally considered the pinnacle in the f lowering of
the Yiddish press and Yiddish literature, but also of literature and periodicals for
children. Karina Kranhold observed: ‘There is hardly any Yiddish writer who did
not write children’s books in the period between the two wars’.2
While such writers as Kadia Molodowsky (1894–1975), Leyb Kvitko (1890/3–1952),
and Itsik Kipnis (1896–1974) became well-established figures in Yiddish literature
for children and younger readers, Joseph Opatoshu did not play central role in that
literary genre. Nonetheless, he also occasionally appears in lists of Yiddish writers
for children, such as in Noah Cotsen’s Bibliography of Yiddish Children’s Literature,
where two stories by Joseph Opatoshu are mentioned (Bay Fordn in fabrik (In Ford’s
factory), 1933, and Soreke (sic!, Sorke), 1938).3
Research on textbooks views them as both an inf luencing factor and the product
of various social and political processes. The textbooks are further inf luenced by
the — changing — zeitgeist. This means that on the one hand, textbooks describe
the social situation and the scientific knowledge of the respective community; on
the other hand, by selecting specific content and forms of presentation, they seek to
inf luence the future community in terms of desirable norms or political ideologies.4
Many texts by Joseph Opatoshu display features that pertain to such a definition.
Thus, we may ask: to what extent were Opatoshu’s stories actually included in
Yiddish educational textbooks in Europe and the United States? This question is
particularly germane because Opatoshu’s most creative phase was concomitant with
two very important developments within Jewish life: the creation of Jewish secular
schooling, and the emergence and f lowering of Yiddish literature for children and
young people both in Europe and the United States.
216 Evita Wiecki
Opatoshu was doubtless aware of these developments, especially as his wife Adele
taught at the Sholem Aleichem Folk Institute5 in New York, and he himself taught
courses in literature at the Jewish Teachers’ Seminary and People’s University, both
founded in New York in 1918.6 In 1920, the year the Kinder-zhurnal (Children’s
Journal), the most important Yiddish-language literary journal for children in
the United States, was founded, the periodical listed Joseph Opatoshu as one of
its contributors. Dozens of photographs show the writer in school classes and
surrounded by groups of children. Reports on his trips through the Soviet Union
often mention the impoverished and difficult living conditions of the children there,
and also provide evidence that Opatoshu was significantly interested in children.7
Opatoshu’s Texts for Children, their Sources and History of Publication

I examined nearly 100 Yiddish textbooks published in the period 1918–68 in
Europe and the Americas in the search for corresponding texts by Opatoshu. These
were mainly classroom readers or text collections for pupils aged 10 and above. In
addition, the study also examined the New York-based periodical Kinder-zhurnal
(1920–508) and the Vilna youth magazine Der khaver (The Friend, 1920–39).9 These
two periodicals, along with several others — Grininke beymelekh (Little Green
Trees, Vilna) or Argentiner beymelekh (Little Argentine Trees, Buenos Aires) — were
popular as teaching material and for supplementary readings. Although the best-
known Yiddish children’s journal is Grininke beymelekh, published in Vilna from
1914 to 1939, Kinder-zhurnal was also included here so as to ensure that the place
where Opatoshu wrote and struggled for Yiddish was represented in the selection.
The magazine Der khaver was selected because it is the only periodical targeting
older children and young people that was published over an extended period.
Children’s magazines played a key role in the development of Yiddish children’s
literature, especially in its heyday during the interwar period: they were an inexp
ensive medium for providing children with appropriate reading material. Signi
ficantly, moreover, this literary genre rose and f lourished within Yiddish literature
only after editors demanded suitable literary texts from authors and specifically
commissioned such texts.
Often, publication in a periodical was seen as a kind of preliminary ‘test track’
for the texts before they were chosen for inclusion in schoolbooks and anthologies.
Editors and the readership of the monthly magazines were more closely connected
than in the case of books. Magazine editors asked readers to comment on the texts
they published, and from that feedback they then recommended certain texts for
schoolbook inclusion. In Vilna, Shloyme Bastomski (1891–1941) made good use of
this channel for interaction with readers. As the author and editor of more than two
dozen textbooks, as a publisher (Di naye yidishe folksshul [The New Jewish People’s
School]) and the editor of two journals for young readers (Grininke beymelekh and
Der khaver), Bastomski recognized the synergy effect between these media, and
utilized it to the full. Authors elsewhere also found Bastomski’s comprehensive
projects useful: in the preface to his Mayn leyenbukh (My Reader, 1934), the New
York-based educator Israel Steinbaum (1895–1979) expressly thanked him for ‘the
bulk of the materials in this book’.10
Literature for Children? 217
The nearly 100 textbooks and two journals examined contained forty-three
publications of twenty-seven texts by Opatoshu. Eight of these were in children’s
periodicals, the remainder scattered in twenty textbooks. Two of his stories appeared
only in the periodicals. The period of publication of these materials encompasses
the years 1919–58.11 No text by Opatoshu contained in the magazines and textbooks
examined was published more than five times. This indicates that although the
book editors were quite interested in texts by Opatoshu, they evidently evaluated
them very differently in respect to content, literary presentation, and didactic
suitability. ‘The intention is for pupils in the Workmen’s Circle schools to become
acquainted with the characteristic works [...] of the most important writers in
Yiddish literature’,12 as the two editors Khayim Shloyme Kazdan and Zalmen
Yefroykin described the aim of their book Bam kval (At the source, 1948). The
book includes Opatoshu’s tale ‘Partizaner’ (Partisans), along with prose by Yitskhok
Leybush Peretz, Mani Leib, and Avrom Sutzkever. Despite such objectives, the
text selection is also inf luenced by the zeitgeist and the political orientation of
the publisher. In 1939, Arn Bergman and Itche Goldberg, American left-wing
educators, published the textbook Undzer bukh (Our Book), and in 1945 Bergmann
alone edited its revised edition by the same title. Both textbooks contain stories by
Opatoshu, but the new revised edition has none of the original five texts; instead,
Bergmann included three new stories. Except for the tale ‘Sorke leyent Yosele’
(‘Sorke reads Yosele’), all the original texts dealt with injustices in American life:
exploitation in the sweat shops and factories (‘Yikhes’ [Pedigree]), lynching of a
black youth (‘Lintsheray’ [Lynching]), discrimination (‘In kar’ [In the Streetcar]),
poverty and hunger among immigrants (‘Brukhvarg’ [Pile of Ruins]). In the 1945
edition, the stories deal with new ‘recent events’, such as survival in hiding during
the Holocaust (‘In di Oretso-berg’ [In the Mountains near Orezzo]) or continuing
anti-Jewish bias despite the extensive assimilation in American society (‘Rishes’
[Animosity towards Jews]).
The twenty textbooks for schools containing stories by Joseph Opatoshu were
published between 1919 and 1958, eleven of them in New York. The nine textbooks
published outside the United States appeared in Vilna (1922), Moscow (1926), Warsaw
(1935/36 and 1958), Iaşi (1947), Buenos Aires (1953), and Bucharest (1957). The eight
texts published in children’s magazines were distributed equally among publications
in Vilna and New York. In pre-war Europe, the textbooks appeared either in the
Warsaw publishing house of the Central School Organization (TSYSHO) associated
with the Bund or in Shloyme Bastomski’s publishing house Di naye yidishe folksshul
in Vilna. Both the books published in Moscow, Arbet un kamf (Work and Struggle)
and Arbets-kinder (Workers’ Children), were issued by the Central Publishing House
of Peoples of the Soviet Union, which specialized in textbooks, as well as in the
publishing house Shul un bukh (School and Book), founded in 1923.13 Surprisingly,
only one single text by Opatoshu was found in the six Argentine textbooks for
older children. Avrom Tkatsh and Shmuel Tsesler included the tale ‘Der mishpet’
(The Judgment) in their text collection Undzer hemshekh (Our Continuation), for
primary and secondary schools. The post-war publications, shaped by communist
policies towards the national minorities in Poland and Romania, were issued by
218 Evita Wiecki
the respective ministries of education. Although in both countries the design of the
textbooks was left to the representatives of the respective minority, the textbooks
were subject to strict state censorship. It is not surprising that these books contain
texts solely with universalistic content or in keeping with propaganda. In 1947,
Eliezer Frenkel published the chrestomathy Dos yidishe vort (The Yiddish Word) in
Iaşi. There is no indication of the publisher, and we can assume that publication was
Frenkel’s private initiative.
The New York publications were brought out by important educational insti
tutions, in particular the socialist Workmen’s Circle and the communist Inter
national Workers’ Order. In terms of their guiding ideology, the editors or
instit utions issuing these books were closely connected with the Jewish labour
movement. One exception among the books published in New York was Refoyel
Gutman’s Yidish: Driter teyl (Yiddish: 3rd volume, 1926) by the Star Hebrew Book
Company. This richly illustrated reader, subtitled Literarishe khrestomatye (Literary
Chrestomathy), was in keeping with the overall programme of the publishing
house, which specialized in books with traditional religious content. It is thus not
surprising that Gutman selected the story ‘Leybke Mazik’ (Leybke, the Mischievous
Brat), set in the traditional Jewish environment of Eastern Europe.14
A similar pattern was noted in the publication history of the texts included in the
textbooks, one familiar from texts by other authors on both sides of the Atlantic.
Typically, the story first appeared in the press for adult readers. Then they were
published in a magazine for children or teenagers, and subsequently, if suitable, they
were included in a textbook. Opatoshu’s tale ‘A geshleg’ (A Brawl), for example,
was first published in the New York daily Der Tog in January 1919. The story begins
with a test of courage among New York boys, as they set a mattress on fire and start
to jump over it to prove their bravery, and ends with a brawl between Christians
and Jews. An abridged version appeared in April 1919 in the Kinder-zhurnal, and
in 1927 a shortened version was included in Israel Steinbaum’s Leyenbikher far der
yidisher shul (Readers for the Jewish School).
A Special Case: The Tale ‘Der mishpet’

The only texts that had a different history of publication were those issued as small
booklets for young readers. There are four such stories in the present selection:
‘Sorke’ (Sorke, an excerpted fragment from the novel Aleyn), ‘Bay Fordn in fabrik’
(In Ford’s Factory), ‘Blut un fayer’ (Blood and Fire) and ‘Der mishpet’ (The
Judgment). The latter is Opatoshu’s most frequently published text for children.
Beautifully illustrated by Władysław Weintraub and Moyshe Faygenblum, this
twenty-page story was published in Warsaw in 1920 by Kultur-Lige (Culture
League) as a small children’s book. This story went through at least four reprints in
book form (1920, 1922, 1924, and 1952) and, as far as we can establish, was reprinted
five times in various children’s magazines and text collections.15 It appeared first
in 1914 in the New York-based monthly Tsukunft, with a dedication to a child —
Opatoshu’s putative younger sister Zelde16 — but without any further indication
that it was a story meant for young readers. The original version has a plot involving
two children: Zelik, the youngest boy in a fisherman’s family living and working
along the banks of the river Vistula, and his girlfriend Rokhl. Zelik experiences
little love in his family, and is not even missed when he disappears for several days.
Instead, each time he’s gone family members think that he has drowned in the
river. The family sees this as a sacrifice that the river demands from time to time
so that they can continue to live by catching fish.17 Rokhl and Zelik decide to
have some fun: out of curiosity, they put a goose egg in place of a stork’s egg in a
stork nest. The children watch the nest when the chicks hatch, and see the male
stork, horrified by the ‘false’ child that has appeared in the nest, biting and striking
the mother stork. In the next scene, the entire f lock of storks convenes a special
meeting; here a death sentence is pronounced upon the innocent stork mother,
and subsequently the female stork is ‘torn to pieces’ as the children look on. On
their way home — the children have to cross the river on a small boat — they are
caught in a storm and, after a fierce struggle, the Vistula takes its sacrifice, the girl
Rokhl. The story then ends abruptly, and the reader is unsure whether Zelik has
survived.
This very realistic and densely narrated story was reprinted several times,
including an edition by the publishing house Argentiner Beymelekh in Buenos
Aires in 1952. This edition is dedicated to the grandson of the author, Dan Opa
toshu: ‘Danelen — mayn finfyerikn eynikl’ (To little Danny, my 5-year-old
grandson), and is accompanied by a photo of the child on a horse.18 This longer
version of the story is not reproduced in the children’s magazines or textbooks,
where the text was included five times in an abridged version, limited to the tragic
story of the stork family and the innocent death of the mother stork. It seems that
Yankev Levin, pioneering curriculum developer in the Workmen’s Circle schools
and author of more than fifteen Yiddish textbooks, created a shorter version of the
story in 1919 for his textbook Di naye idishe shul (The New Jewish School).19 In this
short form, the story was then taken over and republished by others. The setting of
the longer version of ‘Der mishpet’ is in Poland near the river Vistula. The shorter
version is not set specifically in Eastern Europe, so that the tale becomes more
universal, emphasizing the injustice that occurs. Probably because the story was
published several times as a separate book for children, it was not reprinted again in
a magazine until April 1946, in the Kinder-zhurnal in New York.
Along with ‘Der mishpet’, only two other stories were included in multiple text
collections: ‘Sorke leyent Yosele’, anthologized four times, and ‘Leybke Mazik’,
anthologized three times. The stories in all three instances are set in Eastern Europe.
‘Sorke leyent Yosele’ relates how the girl Sorke reads Yankev Dinezon’s story Yosele,
and then discusses with her father the unjust treatment of the boy from a poor
family in the heder, the traditional educational institution of the Ashkenazim.
The main character in ‘Leybke Mazik’, first published in 1913 in the magazine
Nayer Zhurnal (New Journal) in Paris, is a ten-year-old boy living in a shtetl. He
wakes up alone in his basement room and notices that his mother has gone to the
market, as he does every Friday, although she had promised him the day before to
take him along too. And, as always, she has locked away his boots so he cannot
leave the house. Angry and bored, after engaging in all sorts of nonsense he tries
220 Evita Wiecki
to slaughter a chicken that his mother did not take to market. The dying chicken,
its blood f lowing, and his own behaviour frighten and shock him so intensely that
he wishes he were dead.20
Thematic Overview
Children are the main characters in these three tales. In the other stories, Opatoshu
describes an adult world in which children rarely play any important role. If children
appear in the stories, they are primarily passive figures with very different roles:
ranging from mere observers (‘Brukhvarg’), to persons causing conf licts between
the characters (‘Rishes’). Only in ‘In di Oretso-berg’ are they the main protagonists.
All these characters must face problems and issues associated with adults.
The remaining twenty-two stories, all of which were included only once or
twice in textbooks, can be characterized as follows in terms of theme:
• Social topics and the labour struggle in the United States, e.g. ‘Brukhvarg’ (Pile
of Ruins), ‘Yikhes’ (Pedigree), ‘A demonstratsye’ (A Demonstration), ‘Gelekherte
hoyzn’ (Torn Trousers)
• Struggle between the races and discrimination in the United States, e.g.
‘Lintsheray’ (Lynching), ‘A geshleg’ (A Brawl), ‘In kar’ (In the Streetcar)
• The Second World War: ‘Partizaner’ (Partisans) and ‘In di Oretso-berg’ (In the
Mountains near Orezzo)
• Stories from the forests in Eastern Europe, such as ‘Mordkhes yikhes’ (Mordekhay‘s
Pedigree), ‘In a poylishn vald’ (In a Polish Forest), which according to the authors
of the textbooks, are extracted from the novels In poylishe velder (In Polish Woods)
and Aleyn (Alone).
Fourteen of these texts can clearly be classified under the first two themes. Tales
like ‘Gelekherte hoyzn’ or ‘Yikhes’ are family stories, in which a poor relative
comes into contact with a rich factory owner and exploiter. Two worlds collide
here: in ‘Gelekherte hoyzn’, the factory owner is enraged because his brother,
employed there under the same contractual terms as all other workers, takes part
in strikes among the workforce. The owner expects gratitude since he provides for
his brother’s security. But the poorer brother thinks that nothing obliges him to
solidarity with his wealthy brother because a ‘secure job’ means exploitative labour
and ‘torn trousers’. In the story ‘Yikhes’, the rich cousin is prepared to help his
desperate relative, unemployed for months, but only on condition that his cousin
give up their common respected family name.
The story ‘Brukhvarg’ is in the same category. Here children witness the life-
and-death struggle of a hapless immigrant from Warsaw who has failed in his
attempt to create a new life for himself in New York as an umbrella-maker. He dies
beneath a stairway, homesick, suffering mainly from hunger, while the children
rush to find a glass of milk for him.
In the tales dealing with racial struggle, conf licts break out through trif les,
followed by insults, such as the derogatory epithet ‘sheeny’, ‘Jew’, as in the tales ‘A
geshleg’ or ‘In kar’. The focus here is on animosity between Jews and non-Jews. In at
least two of the texts, however, the struggle also involves persons of another colour,
as in ‘Fir neger’ (Four Negroes) and ‘Lintsheray’. The latter story is particularly
brutal and not suitable for children. Nonetheless, it was included in the textbook
Undzer Bukh (Our Book, New York, 1939). It tells the story of a black youth named
Bukert. Opatoshu describes in detail how the boy is hunted down, captured, and
then burned to death, accused of allegedly having insulted a white girl.21
Only two tales, ‘Partizaner’ and ‘In di Oretso-berg’, deal with the Holocaust.
The stories appeared in books published in New York between 1945 and 1954 by the
socialist Workmen’s Circle and the communist International Workers’ Order. The
tale ‘In di Oretso-berg’ relates how two brothers encounter an American Jewish
soldier in the Italian mountains and learn from him that the war is over. ‘Partizaner’
is set in occupied Russia, where a son fighting as a partisan learns about his father’s
death, and then decides that it must be avenged.
Texts in the group of stories about the forests in Eastern Europe are probably all
fragmentary extracts from Opatoshu’s novels Aleyn and In poylishe velder. These six
stories provide a look at Jewish life in Eastern Europe in general, and the life of
forest Jews in particular — a life Opatoshu knew from his childhood in Poland.
This thematic classification is to a large extent similar to the grouping of texts
in Opatoshu’s collected works, which were published in fourteen volumes between
1928 and 1936 by the renowned Vilna-based Boris Kletskin publishing house.
Two-thirds of the texts mentioned here and already published at the time were
included in this edition of collected works. Thus, volume i includes the stories
‘Leybke Mazik’ and ‘Der mishpet’; volume v, entitled Lintsheray, contains ‘In kar’,
‘Fir neger’, ‘A geshleg’, ‘Di mashin’, and the title tale ‘Lintsheray’. The stories
‘Brukhvarg’, ‘A demonstratsye’, and ‘Gelekherte hoyzn’ were included in volume
xii, entitled Klasenkamf (Class Struggle).22 They all appear in their original versions,
which, like the versions published in the press, were addressed to adult readers.
There is no volume in this edition that is dedicated to stories for or about children,
such as we find for example in the complete works of the classic Yiddish author and
pioneer of Jewish literature for children and young people, Sholem Aleichem.
The Tales in their Social Context

Even when we consider only the stories sketched above, most of the tales appear to
deal with topics central to the concerns of the workers’ movement and communist or
socialist ideology. Opatoshu’s interest in social issues is exemplified by publications
included in volume xii of his collected works, which appeared in 1931 under the
title Klasenkamf. In 1932, Khayim Shloyme Kazdan reviewed this volume in the
periodical Tsukunft. He began with a quote from a letter by Sholem Aleichem, in
which the author encourages Opatoshu to concentrate on topics in Jewish life in
the United States, and writes: ‘ir kent unzer geto in dem dozikn gehenem, vos
men ruft im Nyu york’ (You know our ghetto in this hell they call New York).23
Kazdan noted that in this work Opatoshu no longer was just describing the painful
injustices and the hard struggle for a better life, but also expressed his belief in the
‘new worker and the product of his hands’.24 And indeed, along with the forty
222 Evita Wiecki
stories included in the volume Klasenkamf, there are dozens more that deal with the
worker, the inhuman living and working conditions, the boss as ‘exploiter’, and the
destruction of the family as a result of the capitalist hunger for profit over people.
Kazdan also notes that Opatoshu succeeded in creating ‘a Jewish-secular synthesis
of the new world and the old’. Given Kazdan’s social activity and special dedication
to the Yiddish secular school system, it is likely that the reviewer also wanted to
emphasize the inf luence of Opatoshu’s work on the education of young speakers of
Yiddish in the United States, which successfully tried to fuse the traditions and past
in Eastern Europe with the American present. Despite Opatoshu’s great interest in
dealing critically with social themes, Kazdan did not categorize him as a communist.
Opatoshu likewise did not see himself as a communist,25 nor was he regarded as
such by others. Rather, he was viewed as a shining light in the struggle for Jewish
language and culture within the Yiddish cultural world. Thus, Chaim Sloves,
chief organizer of the International Yiddish Culture Congress in 1937 in Paris, was
very pleased that he could persuade Joseph Opatoshu, a non-communist, to write
an article for the Yiddish press in the United States about this planned event.26
Not only Opatoshu’s interest in social topics served to attract him to the
communist movement and its concerns; his commitment to the cause of Yiddish
language and culture also brought him into contact with the communist movement
of the day. At the time, the left-wing, proletarian organizations and movements
were the key driving force in Yiddish secular education, both in Eastern Europe
and overseas. They maintained a comprehensive network of social and cultural
institutions (including schools) and were intensively involved in promoting Yiddish
language and culture.
Given this ideological element in the content of a number of Opatoshu’s stories,
it is likely that textbook editors expected to find suitable texts for their school
anthologies in Opatoshu’s many works. But the variety of texts identified in the
present study suggests that the perception of Opatoshu as an author of suitable texts
for children was in fact quite ambivalent. On the one hand, he was revered as a
contemporary literary figure, a bestselling author and ‘one of the greatest Yiddish
writers, whose novels and short stories are brilliant in their composition and offer
much food for thought’.27 Yet on the other, editors disagreed about which of his
many stories were appropriate for younger readers, which is probably the main
reason why most tales were published in textbooks only once or twice.
Joseph Opatoshu and Yiddish Children’s Literature

Sholem Aleichem is traditionally seen as the father of Yiddish literature for younger
readers. His story Dos meserl (The Penknife), generally regarded as the beginning of
Yiddish literature for children, was published in 1886. However, Chone Shmeruk
stressed that Dos meserl should be viewed as part of a literature about and not for
children.28 Yitzkhok Leybush Peretz, whose story ‘Zibn gute yor’ (Seven Years
of Plenty) was also considered one of the first works in an emerging Yiddish
literature for children, likewise did not write specifically for children. But the texts
by these two classic authors had various features that nonetheless qualified them
as suitable stories for the young. Thus, no textbook of Yiddish for older children
fails to contain some texts by Peretz or Sholem Aleichem. Dina Abramowicz noted
that Peretz’s stories were often ‘Jewish fairy tales. They fulfilled the dual function
of stimulating the children’s imagination while conveying important moral and
national values’.29 Coupled with their generally high aesthetic value, the stimulus
for the child’s imagination in Peretz’s fiction and Sholem Aleichem’s humorous
narrative style is what makes their stories for children useful in the classroom.
As far as can be determined, Opatoshu also never wrote anything meant
especially for a younger readership, nor any story whose first publication was in a
book or periodical explicitly for children or teens.
In the relevant texts examined, his style is marked by realism and a language
that is clear and at times even blunt, with little humour or an engaging style
aimed at appealing to younger readers. Even though Nakhmen Mayzel described
Opatoshu as a writer of ‘the morning hour, sunny and bright’, that is not ref lected
in his stories published for children and young people.30 In content and storyline,
Opatoshu’s tales are generally sad to brutal; in language, they are quite dense, and
with a highly structured form. That is probably because he wrote on a daily basis
for the Yiddish press. In speaking to Nakhmen Mayzel, he noted: ‘I try developing
a maximum of effect with a minimum of words, to sketch life with a minimum
of description’.31 This lean style leaves little space for the reader’s own imagination.
It does not invite the reader to ref lect on emotions and events, and thus lacks
this important component of literature for children and young people. Realism
is certainly a stylistic feature of children’s literature. While Klaus Doderer stresses
that an exact description of the daily life and social reality of children and young
people is indeed typical of this literature, he also complains that the content of such
stories often lies beyond the child’s sphere of experience, so that these stories are
not readily comprehensible for younger readers.32 Nonetheless, in the twentieth
century, the ‘century of the child’, along with Ellen Key’s call for child-centred
education, there is a demand that realistic literature for children and young people
should provide the young reader with meaningful orientation. The material should
encourage critical thinking, helping young people deal with the difficult social
situations in which they may find themselves. At the same time, however, such
literature should satisfy the need for entertainment. To fulfil these requirements,
authors should select a point of narration within the child’s ambience or even inside
the mind of the child herself. Key characteristics of good literature for children and
young people are a structure that is reader-friendly, inclusion of direct speech, and
enough space or at least intentional stimuli for the reader to ref lect on the events and
emotions. Aside from aspects of style, other criteria the genre should seek to fulfil
include contributing to the aesthetic education of the reader, the imparting of values
and knowledge, the encouragement of reading, the element of entertainment, and
the appropriateness of the messages for the intended audience.33
As noted, the texts by Opatoshu surveyed here are largely realistic in style and
social-critical in content. In most of these texts, the reader is introduced to the life
of the Jewish community in Eastern Europe or the United States. The life presented
in Eastern Europe is characterized by a number of typical features of traditional
224 Evita Wiecki
Jewish life, such as the heder in ‘Sorke leyent Yosele’ or the shidukhim (matrimonial
matches) in ‘Mordkhes yikhes’. But in stories set in the United States, the focus is
on general social problems of that era and themes such as hard labour in the sweat
shop, hunger and poverty, and racial strife there in the 1930s. These stories are
connected with the Jewish community solely by elements such as Jewish names, a
character’s origin from a specific East European shtetl, or characteristic expletives.
None of the texts deal centrally with Jewish tradition, and there is no description
of Jewish holidays or customs.
Opatoshu presents a world of adults, not children and young people. The only
attempts to describe the action from the perspective of the child are the stories
‘Sorke leyent Yosele’ and ‘Leybke Mazik’, set in Eastern Europe. These two
stories are the only ones by Opatoshu in the textbooks surveyed that could be
classified by contemporary criteria as children’s literature. Here the author enters
children’s everyday life, describing their cares and worries, feelings and thoughts.
The principal characters, who are children, ref lect on events and talk about their
feelings. At the same time, ‘Leybke Mazik’ is the only story with humorous
elements, a criterion often considered an essential element in good literature for
children and young people. The story ‘Der mishpet’ cannot be classified as a story
specifically for children, although its main characters are indeed children. The tale
does not present a positive alternative to the injustice and violence described; no
positive patterns of behaviour as an alternative are presented, good does not triumph
in the end, nor is there any ref lection on the cruel events. Yet such elements are
indispensable for conveying positive moral values to the young reader and providing
a basis for orientation. Moreover, the tales that deal with conf licts between Jews and
Christians in everyday life in New York — a situation with which a younger Jewish
reader might indeed be familiar — do not furnish the reader with any alternative
patterns of behaviour. Thus, it can be argued that the stories do not give the young
reader any kind of pedagogical assistance or orientation for living.
These stories dealing with everyday life of working families in New York fail
to take advantage of the chance to fulfil an important educational function. They
describe problems that affected numerous families; these were problems with which
children were familiar, but they do not use the opportunity to explain to children
the world of labour, strikes, the industrial environment, and some of its underlying
shaping factors. The only tale in the present corpus that provides some suitable
knowledge of this kind is ‘Bay Fordn in fabrik’ (In Ford’s Factory), describing a
visit to the Ford automotive plant in Detroit. The reader learns various details about
the modern factory and car production, as well as the terrible and life-threatening
working conditions and the unscrupulous factory owners.34
In many cases, the stories of Joseph Opatoshu might have been able to fulfil
the important functions mentioned (provision of knowledge, help for general
orientation, practical pointers for living), because the author had a clear idea of the
social f lashpoints in his time. But he presents topics in a way that is, I would argue,
not appropriate for a young readership. One surprising fact this survey revealed is
that the textbook authors did not decide to adapt the stories, introducing useful
relevant changes. In their introduction to Baym kval, Khayim Shloyme Kazdan and
Zalmen Yefroykin write that they have edited and shortened the texts, and adjusted
them to the suitable linguistic level for the pupils targeted.35 But closer examination
shows that neither they nor the other textbook authors made any real changes in
Opatoshu’s tales. The stories appeared largely in their original unaltered versions,
some of them slightly shortened. One exception is ‘Der mishpet’, which actually
was significantly abridged by the elimination of an entire narrative strand in the
story so that it should be more appropriate for a younger readership.
Linguistic changes involved almost only the orthography, which in the
corresponding publications was adapted to the particular standard selected or the
ideology associated with the source of publication.36 Opatoshu’s lexically demanding
language was hardly changed, adapted, or simplified. In several cases, the textbook
authors made use of a glossary.37 In some cases, the glossaries appeared already in
the late 1920s in the United States, when more and more pupils who spoke mainly
English at home, and thus knew Yiddish solely as a parallel home language or had
learned it as a second language, began to attend Yiddish schools.
Honouring Opatoshu: Two Different Perspectives

To mark the birthday or anniversary of the death of important writers, the children’s
periodicals dedicated a special issue to them. On the 50th anniversary of Opatoshu’s
birth, in January 1937, the Kinder-zhurnal in New York issued a special number also
honouring the writer. It includes a biography of the writer, and is accompanied by
a photo of Opatoshu together with his wife Adele and his son David. In so doing,
the editors thus elevated him to a level with leading figures in Yiddish children’s
literature and education such as Sholem Aleichem, Yitzkhok Leybush Peretz, Avrom
Reisen, or the New York teacher and author Leon Elbe. But the space allotted to
marking Joseph Opatoshu’s contribution was rather meagre by comparison: aside
from an interview dealing with Opatoshu’s childhood in the Eastern European
forest, this issue did not contain any description of his work or any text by him. Yet
including some text was common practice in such anniversary issues, as in the one
for Sholem Asch in January 1931 or Sholem Aleichem in March 1934.
In February 1937 Der khaver, edited by Bastomski, honoured the writer at age
50 and included his story ‘Gelekherte hoyzn’. Shloyme Bastomski characterized
Opatoshu as follows: ‘Joseph Opatoshu writes for adults; he is little read by school
children. Nonetheless, his name is familiar to Jewish youth’.38 Bastomski supported
this statement by citing a survey he had conducted among pupils in Vilna. The
respondents had been asked to mention a few texts by Opatoshu with which they
were familiar. However, in the main they cited excerpts from the long novels In
poylishe velder and Aleyn, texts that had appeared in books or periodicals.
This differential evaluation of the writer Opatoshu in two periodicals for a
younger readership helps us to grasp better why stories by Opatoshu were included
in textbooks for younger readers. As noted, textbooks published by the proletarian
and communist-oriented organizations with a strong preference for social-critical
texts contained certain stories by the writer. However, editors tended more
frequently to select Opatoshu’s stories describing Eastern European Jewish life for
226 Evita Wiecki
inclusion in their textbooks. The relatively large group of excerpts from his novels
indicates that these novels were popular with the public.39 The authors of textbooks
whose main aim was to present Jewish tradition or the diversity of Jewish life were
only able to utilize these excerpts from the longer novels, not the more social-
critical texts.
As mentioned, twenty of the nearly 100 textbooks and two journals examined in
this study contained forty-three publications of texts by Opatoshu, a comparatively
small number. Why it is that these texts, which were written for adults and for
the most part do not conform to common criteria in the twentieth century for
children’s literature, were nonetheless included in a number of different textbooks
for the Yiddish schools? The author was thus given a place in a pantheon of great
Yiddish writers. I would suggest tentatively that several interlinked factors were
at play here: Joseph Opatoshu’s significant presence in the daily press, his success
as a bestselling popular Yiddish novelist, and his importance as a klal-tuer, i.e. an
engaged activist when it came to championing Yiddish language and culture. The
honour bestowed on him at his fiftieth birthday in the two children’s periodicals
shows clearly that Joseph Opatoshu was considered in particular to be an important
social personality in Jewish life.40
The Waning of Opatoshu’s Presence

Opatoshu’s presence in Yiddish publications for children and young people comes
to an end in 1958, four years after his death. This was also a time when the entire
world of Yiddish was in the process of great change. Jewish life in Eastern Europe
had been destroyed, Yiddish had no real place in the newly formed state of Israel,
and in North and South America Yiddish was receding ever more under the impact
of the respective national languages. Newspapers were gradually disappearing, as
were publishing houses, theatres and schools. From 1959 on, only thirteen textbooks
in Yiddish for children, published in Buenos Aires and New York, saw the light of
day worldwide, and only one of these was for older children and young people.
In 1949, Uriel Weinreich published his classic textbook College Yiddish for the
first time. This book marked a clear turning point in the pedagogy of Yiddish:
now learners were frequently university students and scholars studying language
and literature, and interested in Yiddish as a cultural legacy. Down to the present,
another dozen or so such textbooks have been published for this target audience.
Only one of these contains a story by Opatoshu: in his book Intensive Yiddish
(Oxford Yiddish Press, 1996), Gennady Estraikh included the tale ‘In kar’.
In Conclusion
This study exploring Opatoshu as a writer of stories for the younger reader was
based on an examination of Yiddish textbooks, Yiddish periodicals for children
and young people, and independent publications for children. However, the texts
indicate that their inclusion was principally motivated by aspects of content and
ideology. Aesthetic and genre-related criteria for selection and inclusion appear to
have been of secondary importance for the authors of these textbooks and editors
of the respective periodicals.
The publication history of the stories indicates that all these texts targeted an
adult readership when they were written. It is thus not surprising that they have
few features typical of literature for children and young people. Aside from the
dedication to a young relative for the story ‘Der mishpet’, no statement was found
originating from the author saying that these texts were intended for children. The
editors of the publications for schoolchildren included the texts without reworking
their content or language, or adapting this to the targeted readership. The linguistic
complexity of the texts was preserved in the textbooks even when it could no
longer be assumed that Yiddish was the first language of the pupils reading the
stories. From the material available, it is difficult to establish the precise reasons for
inclusion of his texts in these schoolbooks. But in the course of the investigation,
three possible reasons emerged as possible motives for including the texts in the
schoolbooks: (1) they represented a rich source of knowledge about Jewish life in
Eastern Europe and the United States in the eyes of the compilers; (2) in terms of
content and ideology, they were closely compatible with the ideals of the political
organizations concerned with Yiddish secular education; (3) Joseph Opatoshu was
at this time already regarded as one of the most important Yiddish writers, centrally
engaged in the advancement of Yiddish culture.
Aside from several periodicals, stories by Joseph Opatoshu were found in the
following textbooks:
(1) Y. Bakst, Nakhum Oyslender, and G. Fridland, Arbet un kamf: Literarishe khrestomatie.
Hilfs-bukh farn 4-tn, 5-tn un 6-tn lernyor (Moscow: Tsentraler felker-farlag fun F.S.S.R,
1926).
(2) Y. Bakst, Y. Grinberg, Arbets-kinder: Khrestomatye un arbets-bukh farn 3-tn lern-yor
(Moscow: Shul un bukh, 1926).
(3) Shloyme Bastomski and Malke Khaymson, Lebedike klangen: Khrestomatye farn dritn
lernyor (Vilna: Di naye yidishe folksshul, 1922).
(4) Arn Bergman and Itche Goldberg, Undzer bukh (New York: Kooperativer folks-farlag
fun internatsyonaln arbeter ordn, 1939).
(5) Arn Bergman, Undzer bukh: Leyenbukh farn ershtn yor mitshul (New York: Farlag fun
yidishn fraternaln folks-ordn, 1945).
(6) Eliezer Frenkel, Dos yidishe vort: Literarishe khrestomatye (Iaşi: n. pub., 1947).
(7) Betsalel Fridman, Mayn bukh: Leyenbukh farn dritn klas, illustrated by Sh. Kaminski
(New York: Kooperativer folks-farlag fun internatsyonaln arbeter ordn, 1938).
(8) Refoyel Gutman, Yidish. Driter teyl. Literarishe khrestomatye. A leyenbukh mit a sakh
ilustratsyes un bilder (New York: Farlag star hibru buk kompani, 1926).
(9) Leye Halpern and Y. Rotnberg, Yidish: Khrestomatye farn finftn lernyor (Warsaw:
Kooperativer farlag ‘kultur-lige’, 1936).
(10) Khayim Shloyme Kazdan and Zalmen Yefroykin, Baym kval: Bukh eyns (New York:
Arbeter-ring, 1948).
(11) Yankev Levin, Di naye idishe shul: Khrestomatye. Tsveyter teyl, 3rd edn (New York:
Farlag ‘yidishe shul’, 1922).
(12) Yankev Levin, Der onfanger. Leyenbukh. Mit zeyer fil ilustratsyes un bilder in tekst. Finfter
teyl (New York: Farlag ‘yidishe shul’, 1925).
(13) Leyb Olitski, Moyshe Taykhman, and N. Mirer, Yidish: Farn fertn lernyor (Warsaw:
Tsentrale yidishe shulorganizatsye in Poyln, 1935).
228 Evita Wiecki
(14) Shloyme Shapiro and Y. Gubkin, Dos naye vort: Oysnutsndik materyaln fun Sh. Vaysman
(New York: Tsentral komitet fun di idishe folkshuln in di Fareynikte Shtatn un
Kanade, 1954).
(15) Sore Shnayderman and Ana Varkovitska, Dos yidishe vort: Leyen-material farn VII-tn klas
(Warsaw: Panstwowe Zaklady Wydawnictw Szkolnych, 1958).
(16) Aleksander Shpiglblat and Herta Donenfeld, Yidishe shprakh: Leyenbukh farn V-tn klas
(Bucharest: Didaktisher un pedagogisher melukhe-farlag, 1957).
(17) Yisroel Shteynboym, Leyenbikher far der yidisher shul: Dos drite leyenbukh. Illustrated by.
A. Gudlman (New York: Farlag ‘ertsyung’, 1927).
(18) Yisroel Shteynboym, Undzer folk: Leyenbukh far eltere kinder (New York: Farlag
‘dertsyung’, 1932).
(19) Avrom Tkatsh and Shmuel Tsesler, Undzer hemshekh: Khrestomatye far hekhere gradn
onfang-shul un ershte klasn mitl-shul, 2nd edn (Buenos Aires: Farlag Shmid un Aykhnblat,
1953).
(20) Yidishe shprakh. Far di kateders fun yidish. III-ter klas (Bucharest: Didaktisher un
pedagogisher melukhe-farlag, 1957).
Translated from the German by Bill Templer
Notes to Chapter 15
1. Shmuel Niger, ‘Kinder-literatur’, Di yudishe velt, 9 (1913), 143–46 (p. 146); quoted in Dina
Abramowicz, ’Jiddische Kinder- und Jugendliteratur’, in Lexikon der Kinder- und Jugendliteratur:
Personen, Länder- und Sachartikel zu Geschichte und Gegenwart der Kinder- und Jugendliteratur, ed. by
Klaus Doderer, 4 vols (Weinheim, Basel: Beltz, 1979), ii, 70.
2. Karina Kranhold, ‘Jiddische Kinderliteratur’, in Jüdisches Kinderleben im Spiegel jüdischer
Kinderbücher: Eine Ausstellung der Universitätsbibliothek Oldenburg mit dem Kindheitsmuseum Mar
burg, ed. by Helge-Ulrike Hyams, Klaus Ritter, Klaus Klattenhoff, and Friedrich Wißmann
(Oldenburg: Bibliotheks- und Informationssystem der Universität Oldenburg, 2001), pp. 235–44
(p. 241).
3. Dina Abramowicz, ‘Jiddische Kinder- und Jugendliteratur’, in Lexikon der Kinder- und
Jugendliteratur: Personen, Länder- und Sachartikel zu Geschichte und Gegenwart der Kinder- und Jugend
literatur, ed. by Klaus Doderer (Weinheim, Basel: Beltz, 1979), ii, 69–73; Annotated Bibliography
of the Noah Cotsen Library of Yiddish Children’s Literature (Amherst: National Jewish Book Center,
2003), p. 61.
4. On the schoolbook as a ‘product of and factor in social processes’, see E. Horst Schallenberger,
Das Schulbuch: Analyse, Kritik, Konstruktion (Kastellaun: Henn, 1978), p. 12. On textbook theory
as ref lective of social processes, see Thomas Höhne, Schulbuchwissen: Umrisse einer Wissens- und
Medientheorie des Schulbuches (Frankfurt a. Main: Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität, 2003).
5. The Sholem Aleichem Folk Institute was a secular, politically neutral Yiddishist umbrella
organization for Yiddish supplementary education for children and young people in the United
States, with a number of affiliated schools.
6. Leksikon fun der nayer yidisher literatur, 8 vols (New York: Alveltlekher yidisher kultur-kongres,
1956), i, 147. According to the same source (p. 145), Opatoshu is believed to have taught in
a Talmud Torah school during his first few years in New York. Significantly, the Jewish
Teachers’ Seminary was ‘the only Yiddish teachers’ training college and school for advanced
Yiddish studies in North America’; see Gershon Winer, ‘Jewish Teachers’ Seminary and People’s
University’, in Encyclopaedia Judaica, ed. by Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik, 22 vols (2nd
edn (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007), xi, 327–28.
7. See, for example, in Joseph Opatoshu, Gezamelte verk. Shtet un mentshn (Vilna: B. Kletskin, 1934),
xiii, ‘Af Moskver bulevarn’, pp. 209–14, ‘Kinder-shtetl’, pp. 188–93, or ‘Oyf der Moldavenke’,
pp. 198–202.
8. The periodical Kinder-zhurnal continued to appear on into the 1970s. These volumes were not
accessible to me for the present study. On the Kinder-zhurnal, see Naomi Tozman, ‘ “Kinder-
zhurnal”: A microcosm of the Yiddishist philosophy and secular education movement in
America’. (unpublished thesis, Department of Religion and Philosophy in Education, McGill
University, Montreal, 1993 <goo.gl/OHnSe> [accessed 19 October 2012]).
9. Several issues were not accessible.
10. Yisroel Shteynboym, Mayn leyenbukh (Ershte shrit) (New York: Farlag ‘dertsyung’, 1934), p. 96.
11. These are the following: ‘Bay Fordn in fabrik’ (Olitski/Taykhman/Mirer 1935), ‘Blut un fayer’
(Levin 1925), ‘Brukhvarg’ (Shteynboym 1932 and Bergman/Goldberg 1939), ‘A demonstratsye’
(Bez/Yefroykin 1933), ‘Fir neger’ (Frenkel 1947), ‘Gelekherte hoyzn’ (Bez/Yefroykin 1933 and
Der khaver 2/1937), ‘A Geshleg’ (Kinder-zhurnal 4/1920 and Shteynboym 1927), ‘In di Oretso-
berg’ (Bergman 1945 and Shapiro/Gubkin 1954), ‘In a poylishn vald’ (Halpern/Rotnberg 1936),
‘In kar’ (Bergman/Goldberg 1939), ‘Kegn die hoyfn’ (Oyslender/Bakst/Fridland 1926), ‘Kinder’
(Kinder-zhurnal 7/1920), ‘Leybke Mazik’ (Bastomski/Khaymson 1922, Gutman 1926 and Der
khaver 9/1934), ‘Lintsheray’ (Bergman/Goldberg 1939), ‘Maranen’ (Bergman 1945), ‘Di mashin’
(Bez/Yefroykin 1933), ‘Der mishpet’ (Levin 1922, Levin 1925, Fridman 1938, Kinder-zhurnal, 4
(1946) and Shnayderman/Varkovitska 1958), ‘Der mishpet’ (Shteynboym 1932), ‘Mlaver eyde’
(Shteynboym 1932), ‘Mordkhes yikhes’ (Tkatsh/Tsesler 1953), ‘Partizaner’ (Kazdan/Yefroykin
1948), ‘Poyershe umruen’ (Bakst/Grinberg 1926), ‘Reb Itshe’ (Levin 1925 and Frenkel 1947),
‘Rishes’ (Bergman 1945), ‘Semke’ (Levin 1932), ‘Sorke leyent Yosele’ (Bergman/Goldberg
1939, Shpigelblat/Donenfeld 1957, Yidishe shprakh III 1957 and Kinder-zhurnal 1/1926), ‘Yikhes’
(Bergman/Goldberg 1939), ‘Zumer in veg’ (Der khaver 5/1932).
12. Khayim Shloyme Kazdan and Zalmen Yefroykin, Bam kval: Bukh eyns (New York: Workmen’s
Circle, 1948), p. 3.
13. On Yiddish publishing in the Soviet Union, see David Shneer, Yiddish and the Creation of Soviet
Jewish Culture, 1918–1930 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 88–133.
14. The story appears here entitled ’Leybele Mazik’.
15. The text ‘Der mishpet’, included in the textbook Undzer folk. Leyenbukh far eltere kinder, ed. by
Israel Steinbaum (1932), is a fragment from the novel In poylishe velder.
16. In fact Opatoshu had no sister. In his Opatoshu bibliography the historian and literature critic
Jacob Shatzky corrected this and stated: ‘gevidmet mayn brudern-tokhter Zeldin’ [dedicated to
my niece Zelde]. See Jacob Shatski, Opatoshu-biblyografye (New York: Arbeter-ring, 1937), p. 6.
17. We can also find this motif in the first chapter of the novel In poylishe velder.
18. On actor and writer Dan Opatoshu, son of actor and playwright David Opatoshu, and
his relation to his grandfather Joseph, who used to read to him in Yiddish as a child, see
Eddy Portnoy, ‘Kids Lit: More Jewish Books Begin to Sprout’, Forward, 11 February 2009
(<http://forward.com/articles/15149/kids-lit-more-yiddish-books-begin-to-sprout/>, accessed
19 June 2013).
19. Yankev Levin, Di naye idishe shul: Khrestomatye, Tsveyter teyl, 3rd edn (New York: Farlag yidishe
shul, 1922), pp. 83–85.
20. Shloyme Bastomski and Malke Khaymson, Lebedike klangen: Khrestomatye farn dritn lernyor (Vilna:
Di naye yidishe folksshul, 1922), pp. 78–80.
21. This five-page story in the textbook differs from the long version that appeared in Opatoshu’s
Gezamelte verk, v (Vilna: B. Kletskin, 1927). That story is just under forty pages long and narrates
not only how Bukert was hunted down and killed, but also presents the mood among the
residents in the locality, including the Jews. One of them, a certain Mr Levy, says: ‘Mark my
words. If today they lynch a black, tomorrow it will be a Jew’. Eric J. Sundquist in his Strangers
in the Land: Blacks, Jews, Post-Holocaust America, stresses the parallel that Jewish writers, among
them Joseph Opatoshu, saw between the persecution of the Blacks in the United States and the
pogroms against the Jews in Russia. In the version in Undzer bukh, only Bukert, his family, and
his persecutors and tormenters appear in the tale. It has been impossible to determine in what
version the story was first published in 1920 (first publication as indicated in the Gezamelte verk).
See Eric J. Sunquist, Strangers in the Land: Blacks, Jews, Post-Holocaust America (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 2005), p. 27.
22. Shatski, Opatoshu-biblyografye, pp. 24–26.
23. Letter, Sholem Aleichem to Yoysef Opatoshu, 27 April 1915, also quoted in Joseph Opatoshu,
230 Evita Wiecki
In poylishe velder: Fragmentn un forsharbetn tsu der kharakteristik, zikhroynes, bilder (Buenos Aires,
Ateneo Literario en el IWO: 1965), pp. 382–83.
24. Khayim Shloyme Kazdan, ‘Y. Opatoshu — Klasenkamf ’, Tsukunft, June 1932, pp. 377–81.
25. In correspondence with H. Leivick, he expressed his disappointment after a trip to Palestine
in 1934 regarding the situation of Yiddish there, and wrote that Yiddish writers had only one
option, and that was communism. Here he was referring to what he saw as the favourable
situation for Yiddish culture in the Soviet Union at that time. See. Y. Lifshits, ‘Iberblik iber der
korespondents: H. Leyvik — Yoysef Opatoshu’, Di goldene keyt, 106 (1981), 96–116.
26. Matthew Hoffman, ‘From Czernowitz to Paris: The International Culture Congress of 1937’,
in Czernowitz at 100: The First Yiddish Language Conference in Historical Perspective, ed. by Kalman
Weiser and Joshua A. Fogel (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2010), pp. 151–64 (p. 155).
27. Preface by Zelik Mazur to Yoysef Opatoshu, Der Mishpet, illustrated by Władysław Weintraub
and Moyshe Faygenblum (Buenos Aires: Argentiner Beymelekh, 1952), pp. 3–4.
28. Chone Smeruk, ‘Sholem-Aleykhem un di onheybn fun der yidisher literatur far kinder’, Di
goldene keyt, 112 (1984), 39–53.
29. Abramowicz, p. 70.
30. Nachman Mayzel, Noente un eygene ( fun Yankev Dinezon biz Hirsh Glik) (New York: Yikuf-
Farlag, 1957), p. 196.
31. Ibid., p. 201.
32. ‘Realismus’, in Lexikon der Kinder- und Jugendliteratur, iii.
33. Ibid.
34. See Annotated Bibliography, p. 61: ‘A description of a huge assembly line Ford factory, com
plete with fiery furnaces, clanging machinery, drudgery on an assembly line, lost limbs, regi
mentation’.
35. Baym kval, p. 3.
36. Thus, for example, all the textbooks published in the 1930s by the International Workers’ Order
used the so-called Soviet Yiddish orthography, and likewise then in Betsalel Friedman’s Mayn
bukh (New York: Kooperativer folks farlag fun der yidisher sektsye fun internatsyonaln arbeter
ordn, 1938).
37. See e.g. Bam kval, pp. 73–78.
38. Shloyme Bastomski, Der khaver, 2 (1937), 34–37 (p. 34)
39. Irving Howe and other critics also considered the novels dealing with Eastern Europe the best
works by Opatoshu. See Irving Howe, World of Our Fathers: The Journey of East European Jews to
America and the Life They Found and Made (New York: Schocken, 1989), p. 448.
40. For example, historian Lucy Dawidowicz mentions how pleased she was to meet him as a
younger student when he was invited to YIVO to speak in October 1938. See Beth Reisfeld,
‘From New York to Vilna and Back: A Jewish Historian in the Making’, Foundations 4/1 (2009),
7–58.
C h a p t e r 16
v
Bibliography of Joseph Opatoshu

Holger Nath
Between 1937 and 1965 four bibliographies of Joseph Opatoshu’s work were
published: Opatoshu biblyografye, i (New York, 1937; 1,380 entries); Opatoshu biblyo
grafye, ii (New York, 1947; 404 entries); Yefim Yeshurin, Yoysef Opatoshu biblyografye
(Buenos Aires, 1965; 304 entries); Nakhmen Mayzil’s bibliography in his book
Yoysef Opatoshu: zayn lebn un shafn (Warsaw, 1937; 312 entries). (I would like to
thank Ellie Kellman for sharing some of her materials.) These bibliographies pro
vide comprehensive information about the short stories Opatoshu published in the
Yiddish press, and the reviews he received.
These compilations are quite extensive, and some are available online for the
interested researcher. We attempted to complement the existing bibliographies,
rather than simply providing a duplicate list of references. Therefore, I focused on
references that have been published since 1965, and provided links to all those texts
that are available online to date. I hope that this will facilitate access to the works
of Opatoshu and help to inspire further research
To collect the references, I relied primarily on internet resources like Worldcat.
org, the Index to Yiddish Periodicals (‘Indeks tsu der yidisher peryodik’) <http://
www.yiddish-periodicals.huji.ac.il/> (which lists works on and by Opatoshu up
until 1955), the index to the Historical Jewish press <http://www.jpress.org.il>,
the catalogs of YIVO, the Harvard Libraries, and the New York Public Library.
Since Opatoshu’s death in 1954, scholarly research has mostly subsided. Instead of
exploring Opatoshu as a writer, critics focused on the literary group Di Yunge, of
which he was a member.
The recent focus on Opatoshu at the University of Regensburg seems to
have sparked interest in his writings; consider for example the publications from
Regensburg and the many articles published in the Forverts since 2008.
Please note that the Historical Jewish Press and its digitized clippings of the
Warsaw newspaper Haynt includes mostly general references to Opatoshu, inclu
ding his visit to Poland. In addition, an alphabetical list of short story titles and
chapter headings, with references to the books in which they appeared, is included.
Short story titles and chapter headings were sometimes reused by Opatoshu for
different texts. Yiddish titles have been romanized according to the YIVO system
of transliteration.
232 Holger Nath
This bibliography consists of nine sections:

(1) Bibliographies compiled between 1937 and 1965.
(2) An alphabetical list of Yoysef Opatoshu’s published books, articles,
and short stories in anthologies, both fiction and non-fiction, as well
as books edited by Opatoshu.
(3) An alphabetical list of chapter headings and short story titles with a
reference to the original volume in which they were published.
(4) Translations of his work into other languages.
(5) Published letters to and from Opatoshu.
(6) Secondary literature with a focus on Yiddish sources (most available
online).
(7) Multimedia: films and audiobooks, based on Opatoshu’s works.
(8) Poetry lauding Opatoshu
(9) Archival materials: texts and photographs
Abbreviations
BA = Buenos Aires; Kh = Kharkov; K = Kiev; M = Moscow; NY = New York;
TA = Tel Aviv; V = Vilna; W = Warsaw
(1). Bibliographies
Opatoshu biblyografye, b’ 1. Firvort: Y. Shatski (NY: Aroysgegebn fun (Mlaver-Bendiner) Y.
Opatoshu brentsh 639, Arbeter-ring, 1937). 71 pp.; 1380 entries <http://www.archive.
org/details/nybc205936>
Opatoshu biblyografye, heft tsvey (1937–1947) (NY: Aroysgegebn durkh (Mlaver-Bendiner) Y.
Opatoshu brentsh 639 Arbeter-ring, 1947). 35 pp.; 404 entries
Mayzel, Nakhmen/Mayzel, Nachman. Yoysef Opatoshu: zayn lebn un shafn (W: Literarishe
bleter, 1937). pp. 175–88
Shenster bikher-oytser (W: Kooperativ bikher, 192os, no year of publication given). 16 pp.
[includes contents of multi-volume works by Yiddish authors, e. g. Y. Opatoshu]
Yeshurin, Yefim H./Jeshurin, Ephim H., comp., Yoysef Opatoshu biblyografye, Separat-
opdruk fun 23stn band Musterverk fun der yidisher literatur Yoysef Opatoshu / In
poylishe velder (BA: Ateneo literario en el IWO, 1965). 16 pp., 304 entries <http://www.
archive.org/details/nybc205822> [link to Musterverk volume]
(2). An Alphabetical List of Yoysef Opatoshu’s Works

(2.1). Fiction
1863, Gezamlte verk, vii (V: B. Kletskin, 1925)
1863: tsveyter teyl fun der trilogye ‘In poylishe velder’, Gezamlte verk, vii (V: B. Kletskin, 1926).
231 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205870>
1863: tsveyter teyl fun der trilogye ‘In poylishe velder’, mit a forvort fun Sh. Epshteyn (K: Kultur
lige, 1929). 245 pp.
Af yener zayt brik (Kh: Melukhe farlag fun Ukrayne, 1929). 288 pp.
Aleyn: roman (NY: Nay-tsayt, 1919). 211 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc200179>
Aleyn: roman, Gezamlte verk, iv (V: B. Kletskin, 1926)
Aleyn: roman, 2nd edn, Gezamlte verk, iv (V: B. Kletskin, 1927). 192 pp. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc205867>
Bibliography of Joseph Opatoshu 233
Arum di khurves, 3rd edn, Gezamlte verk, viii (V: B. Kletskin, 1929). 228 pp. <http://archive.
Arum Grend-Strit: roman (Kh: Tsentrfarlag, [1929]). 240 pp.
Bay Fordn in fabrik, Baveglekhe khrestomatye, v (Naye yidishe folksshul, 1933). 8 pp. <http://
archive.org/details/nybc213205>
Blut un fayer (W: Kinder-fraynd, 1935). 63 pp.
Byanke un andere dertseylungen, Gezamlte verk, x (V: B. Kletskin, 1928). 252 p. <http://
Farloyrene menshn: a roman funm yidishn lebn in Amerike (Berlin: Idisher literarisher farlag,
1922). 287 pp. [= Hibru] <http://archive.org/details/farloyrenemenshn00opat>
Fun Nyu Yorker gheto ([NY]: Idisher literarisher farlag, 1914). 102 pp. <http://archive.org/
details/funnyuyorkergh00opat>
Gorek Strit: dertseylungen (W: Kinder-fraynd, 1936). 45 pp.
Hibru (NY: Maks N. Mayzel farlag far yidisher literatur un visenshaft, 1920). 275 pp.
<http://archive.org/details/nybc205884>
Hibru, Gezamlte verk, iii (V: B. Kletskin, 1928). 246 pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc205866>
In poylishe velder (NY: M. N. Mayzel, 1921). 357 pp.
In poylishe velder (W: Kultur-Lige, 1922). 339 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205933>
In poylishe velder, 10. oyf l., Gezamlte verk, vi (V: B. Kletskin, 1928). 338 pp. <http://archive.
In poylishe velder (NY: R. Y. Novak, 1947). 340 pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc200114>
In poylishe velder, Musterverk fun der yidisher literatur, xxiii (BA: Yoysef Lifshits-fond fun der
Literatur-gezelshaft baym Yivo, 1965). 412 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205822>
Klasnkamf, Gezamlte verk, xii (V: B. Kletskin, 1931). 292 pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc205875>
Koylngreber (Kh: Tsentrfarlag, [1930]). 14 pp.
Koylngreber (M: Melukhe-farlage ‘Emes’, 1939). 15 pp.
Der letster oyfshtand: roman in tsvey bikher (NY: Tsiko, 1948). i: <http://archive.org/details/
nybc200182>; ii: <http://archive.org/details/nybc200183>
Der letster oyfshtand: roman in tsvey bikher (NY: Tsiko, 1948–55). [i: R’ Akiva; ii: Bar-Kokhba]
Lima-gogo (Toronto: Pomer Publishing and Printing Co., 1951). 16 pp.
Lintsheray, Kleyne biblyotek, iv (W: Yidish bukh, 1958). 47 pp.
Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen, Gezamlte verk, v (V: B. Kletskin, 1927). 239 pp. <http://
Mentshn un khayes (NY: Kooperativer folks farlag fun Internatsyonaln arbeter ordn, 1938).
288 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc200239>
Mi un furem: dertseylungen, Gezamlte verk, xiv (V: B. Kletskin, 1936), 254 pp. <http://archive.
Der mishpet, illustrated by V. Vayntroyb, Shul-biblyotek, xxi (W: Kultur-Lige, 1922). 15 pp.
Der mishpet, illustrated by V. Vayntroyb. Shul-biblyotek, xxi (W: Kultur-Lige, 1924. 32 pp.
Der mishpet, illustrated: Volf Vladislav Vayntroyb and Moyshe Faygenblum (BA: Argentiner
beymelekh, 1952). 30 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc213206>
Mlave-Nyu York: dertseylungen (V: B. Kletskin, 1939)
Mlaver dertseylungen (BA: Y. Ivan un S. Ivan-Burshtin, 1954). 306 pp.
Oyf zaytike vegn: noveln, Gezamlte verk, ix (V: B. Kletskin, 1926). 237 pp. <http://archive.
Oyfn barg Nevo: dertseylung. (Hazkores neshomes: gedenk-bukh nokh Yankev b”r Avrom Vulf un
Sore Yente Vulf) (NY: Aroysgegebn fun di kinder, 1949). 10 pp.
234 Holger Nath
Pundeko retivto (Chicago: L. M. Shteyn, 1933). 23 pp. <http://archive.org/details/

pundkoretivto00opat>
Rase, lintsheray un andere dertseylungen, Perets-biblyotek, i (W: Perets-biblyotek, 1923). 101 pp.
A roman fun a ferd ganev un andere ertsehlungen (NY: Literarisher ferlag, 1917). 266 pp. <http://
A roman fun a ferd ganev un andere ertsehlungen (W: Kultur-Lige, 1924). <http://archive.org/
details/nybc205898>
A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen, 7th edn, Gezamlte verk, i (V: B. Kletskin,
1928). 236 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205864>
A roman fun a ferd-ganev, Universale biblyotek, vi (K: Kultur-Lige, 1928). 145 pp.
Shikh putser (Kh: Farlag gezkult, 1927). 39 pp.
Shtet un mentshn, Gezamlte verk, xiii (V: B. Kletskin, 1934). 252 pp. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc205876>
Sorke, Kinder fraynd, iv (W: Kinderfraynd, 1938). 94 pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc204936 ; http://archive.org/details/nybc213210>
Sor’ke, Fun’m bukh ‘Aleyn’, farkirtst far kinder. Arbeter-ring kinder-biblyotek, vol 1. no.
1 (NY: Bildungs department Arbeter-ring, 192-?). 27 pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc213211>
Di tentserin: (Arum Grend-Strit): roman: a shtik yidish lebn in di yorn 1910–1911, Gezamlte verk,
xi (V: B. Kletskin, 1930). 373 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205874>
A tog in Regensburg un Elye Bokher (NY: E. Malino, 1933). 127 pp. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc200026>
A tog in Regensburg un Elye Bokher (W: Literarishe bleter, 1934). 128 pp. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc201212>
A tog in Regensburg un Elye Bokher (Paris: Di goldene pave, 1955). 106 pp. <http://archive.
Untervelt (NY: Literarisher ferlag, 1918). 107, 101 pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc205881>
Untervelt (W: Kultur-Lige, 1918). <http://archive.org/details/nybc205880>
Untervelt, 3rd edn (W: Kultur-Lige, 1922). 249, [3] pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc205880>
Untervelt, 4th edn (W: Kultur-Lige, 1924). 248, [4] pp.
Untervelt (W: Kultur-Lige, 1927). 249 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc211716>
Untervelt, Gezamlte verk, ii (V: B. Kletskin, 1929). 248, [4] pp. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc205865>
Ven Poyln iz gefaln (NY: Tsiko, 1943). 311 pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc200180>
Ven Poyln iz gefaln (BA: Yidish, 1945). 347, [1] pp. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205935>
Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen (NY: CYCO, 1951). 319 pp.
‘Bay Fordn in fabrik’, in Der khaver (Vilna) 6 (16) (March 1930), pp. 235-42. <http://www.
epaveldas.lt/vbspi/biSerial.do?biRecordId=2679>
‘A demonstratsye’, in Unzer vort: literarish-gezelshaftlakhe khrestomatye, ed. by S. Yefroykin and
Khayim Bez (NY: Maks N. Mayzel farlag, 1933), pp. 149–54. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc204435>
‘A demonstratsye’, in Unzer vort: literarish-gezelshaftlakhe khrestomatye, ed. by S. Yefroykin
and Khayim Bez (NY: Maks N. Mayzel farlag, 1935), pp. 156–61. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc204434>
‘Dray hebreer’. in Zamlbikher 8, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY: [n.pub.], 1952),
pp. 210–16. <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200835>
‘Fir neger’. Forverts, 27 April 2012, 13
‘Fun Nyu Yorker gheto’. in Di naye heym: ershtes zamelbukh (NY: Literarisher ferlag, 1914),
pp. 1–102 [sep. pag.]. <http://archive.org/details/nybc208800>
‘Gelekherte hoyzn’, in Unzer vort: literarish-gezelshaftlakhe khrestomatye, ed. by S. Yefroykin

details/nybc204435>
details/nybc204434>
‘Gelekherte hoyzn’, in Mayn bukh: lernbukh farn fertn klas, ed. by Avrom Goldberg and M.
Shifris (NY: Yidisher kooperativer folks-farlag fun Internatsyonaln arbeter ordn, 1939),
pp. 115–18. <http://archive.org/details/nybc208545>
‘Gelekherte hoyzn’, in Der khaver (Vilna) 2 (72) (February 1937), pp. 39-44. <http://www.
and Khayim Bez, drite farbeserte oyf lage (NY: Maks N. Mayzel farlag, 1940), pp. 72–76.
‘Geyrim’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico:
Yidishe shul in Meksike, 1973), pp. 81–85. <http://archive.org/details/nybc213663>
‘A graduirung’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman
(Mexico: Yidishe shul in Meksike, 1973), pp. 90–93. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc213663>
‘In di Orentsa-berg’, in Dos yidishe vort: leyenbukh far der yidisher shul, ed. by S. Yefroykin
and Khayim Bez (NY: Bildungs-komitet fun Arbeter-Ring, 1947), pp. 312–16. <http://
‘In kar’, in Yungvald, Biblyotek fun ‘Sovetish Heymland’ (103–04) 7–8, Baylage tsum
zhurnal num. 7 (1989) (M: Sovetski pisatel, 1989), pp. 60–66. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc204693>
‘Kivke ganev’, Forverts, 28 September 2012, Baylage: Kleyne antologye fun kurtse
dertseylungen: b. <http://yiddish.forward.com/node/4680>
‘Kleyne Mlaver antologye’, in Yidishe kultur 48(10) (1998), pp. 39–49. [includes: Di Mlaver
eyde: Montik. Bay Mlaver landslayt. Kivke ganev.]
‘Leybke mazik’, in Der khaver (Vilna) 5 (17) (May 1922), pp. 159-163. <http://www.
‘Leybke mazik’, in Der khaver (Vilna) 9 (49) (November 1934), pp. 221-226. <http://www.
‘Lintsheray’, in Amerike: ershter teyl fun der baveglakher khrestomatye far’n fertn lern-yor fun
elementare shuln. (NY: Internatsyonaler arbeter-ordn, 1930), pp. 27-33 [pp. 355-361 in file].
‘Lintsheray’, in Dos vort: literarishe khrestomatye in dray teyl: driter teyl, ed. by Shloyme
Vaysman (NY: Idishe folksshuln fun Idish-natsyonaln arbeter farband un Poyle-Tsien,
1931), pp. 34–48. <http://archive.org/details/nybc207419>
‘Di mashin’, in Unzer vort: literarish-gezelshaftlakhe khrestomatye, ed. by S. Yefroykin and
nybc204435>
‘Di mashin’, in Unzer vort: literarish-gezelshaftlakhe khrestomatye, ed. by S. Yefroykin and
nybc204434>
‘Mir muzn gevinen’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, II, ed. by Shoel Ferdman
(Mexico: Yidishe shul in Meksike, 1974), pp. 260–263. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc213662>
‘Der mishpet’, in Mayn bukh: leyenbukh farn dritn klas, ed. by Betsalel Fridman (NY:
Kooperativer folks farlag fun der yidisher sektsye, Internatsyonaler arbeter ordn, 1938),
236 Holger Nath
‘Di Mlaver eyde’, in Yidishe literatur-antologye far di ershte yorn mitlshul, ed. by Pinkhes Erlikh
(BA: Farlag S. Segal, 1960), pp. 322–24. <http://archive.org/details/nybc214053>
‘Mordkhes yikhes: funem roman ‘In poylishe velder’’, in Undzer hemshekh: khrestomatye far
hekhere gradn onfang-shul un ershte klasn mitl-shul, ed. by Avrom Tkatsh and Shmuel Tsesler,
tsveyte farbeserte oyf lage (BA: Shmid un Aykhenblat, 1953), pp. 192–93. <http://archive.
‘Moris un zayn zuhn Filip’, in Shriften: a dray monat bukh, 2 ([NY]: Farlag Amerika, 1913),
‘Oyf yener zayt brik’, in Literatur: tsveyter zamelbukh, ed. by Joel Entin, Y. Slonim, and M.
Y. Khaimovitsh (NY: Ferayn literatur, 1910), pp. 81–92. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc202242>
‘Partizaner’, in Yidishe literatur-antologye far di ershte yorn mitlshul (BA: Farlag S. Segal, 1960),
‘Partizaner’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, II, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico:
‘Patriotizm: dertseylung’, in Poylishe yidn in Dorem-Amerike: zamlbukh tsum 25-yorikn yoyvl
fun organizirtn poylishn idntum in Argentine 1916–1941 (BA: Tsentral-farband fun poylishe
yidn in Argentine, 1941), pp. 313–15. <http://archive.org/details/nybc201280>
‘Poylishe velder’, in Fun mensh tsu mensh: a zamelbukh far poezye, ed. by Moyshe Leyb
Halpern (NY: Ferlag Nyu York, 1915)
‘Poylishe velder: ... Reb Sendele Kotsker’, in Yidishe literatur-antologye far di ershte yorn
mitlshul, ed. by Pinkhes Erlikh (BA: Farlag S. Segal, 1960), pp. 324–29. <http://archive.
‘R’ Itshe Mekubl’, in Dos vort: literarishe khrestomatye in dray teyl: driter teyl, ed. by Shloyme
Vaysman (NY: Idishe folksshuln fun Idish-natsyonaln arbeter farband un Poyle-Tsien,
‘A roman fun a ferd-ganev’, in Shriften: a dray monat bukh, i ([NY]: Farlag Amerika, 1913),
‘Semke’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, ershter teyl, ed. by Shoel Ferdman, 2nd
edn (Mexico: Yidishe shul in Meksike, 1974), pp. 109–12 [includes footnotes on difficult
words] <http://archive.org/details/nybc213665>
‘Sforim’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico:
‘Shabes’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico:
‘Shutfim’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico:
‘Tsurik in Mlave’, in Khurbn antologye: 109 poetn, dertseylers un memuaristn, ed. by Avrom
Zak (BA: Yosef Lifshits-fond fun der Literatur-gezelshaft baym Yivo, 1970), pp. 376–82.
‘Ven Poyln iz gefaln’, in Zamlbikher 5, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY: [n.
pub.], 1943), pp. 17–52. <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200381>
‘Yikhes’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico:
‘Yom ha-din’, in Zamlbikher 4, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY: [n. pub.], 1939),
‘Zumer in veg’, in Der khaver (Vilna), 5 (25) (May 1932), pp. 209-16 <http://www.epaveldas.
lt/vbspi/biSerial.do?biRecordId=2679>
(2.2). Non-fiction
Tsvishn yamen un lender: a rayze keyn Erets-Yisroel (NY: Sheyndl, 1937). 77 pp. <http://
Tsvishn yamen un lender: a rayze keyn Erets-Yisroel (W: Literarishe bleter, 1937). <http://
Yidish un yidishkayt: eseyen (Toronto: Gershn Pomerants, 1949). 96 pp. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc203106>
Yidish un yidishkayt: eseyen (Rio de Janeiro: [Tsevi Yatom], 1952). 107 pp. <http://archive.
‘Bagrisung’, in Ershter alveltlekher Yidisher kultur-kongres, Pariz 17–21 sept. 1937: stenografisher
barikht (Paris: Tsentral-farvaltung fun Alveltlekhn Yidishn kultur-farband (Iku’f ), 1937),
p. 34. <http://archive.org/details/nybc208020>
‘Dem kinstlers yidish un der YIVO’, Yidishe shprakh, 2 (1942), 72–75
‘Dos fulblutike und dos opgedroshene yidish’, Afn shvel, 264 (1986),17–18
‘Fun mayn leksikon’, Yidishe shprakh, 1 (1941), 57–62, 118–20, 156–57, 183–85. <http://
yivolibrarybooks.org/43569>
‘Fun vanen shtamt dos vort meshumed?’, Yidishe shprakh, 2 (1942), 186
‘Khumesh-verter’, Yidishe shprakh, 1 (1941), 30–32. <http://www.yivolibrarybooks.org/43568>
‘Kiem nisht untergang’, in Zamlbikher, vi, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY: [n.
pub.], 1945, pp. 487–95. <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200382>
‘Kiem — nisht untergang’. Forverts, supplement no. 33. 13 April 2001, 13
‘L. M. Shteyn — a ring in a groyser keyt’, in L.M. Shteyn: zibetsik yor ondenkbukh (Chicago:
L. M. Shtayn yoyvl-komitet un Shikager komitet fun Yivo, 1953), p. 41. <http://archive.
‘Mlaver verter’, in Arkhiv far yidisher shprakhvisnshaft, literaturvisnshaft un etnologye, ed. by
Noyekh Prilutski (W: Nayer Farlag, 1926), pp. 297–303. <http://archive.org:/details/
nybc203587>
‘Oytobiografishe notitshn’, in Yidishe literatur-antologye far di ershte yorn mitlshul, ed. by
Pinkhes Erlikh (BA: Farlag S. Segal, 1960), pp. 319–21. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc214053>
‘Perets’s veg’, in Zamlbikher 3, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY: [n. pub.], 1938,
‘Shlus-rede’, in Ershter alveltlekher yidisher kultur-kongres, Pariz 17–21 sept. 1937: stenografisher
barikht (Paris: Tsentral-farvaltung fun Alveltlekhn Yidishn kultur-farband (Iku’f ), 1937),
‘Tsugob-referat’, in Ershter alveltlekher Yidisher kultur-kongres, Pariz 17–21 sept. 1937:
stenografisher barikht (Paris: Tsentral-farvaltung fun Alveltlekhn Yidishn kultur-farband
(Iku’f ), 1937), pp. 192–93. <http://archive.org/details/nybc208020>
‘Tsvishn yamen un lender’, in Zamlbikher 1, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY:
[n. Pub.], 1936), pp. 265–337. <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200612>
‘Undzer tsugang tsu literatur: di oyserlekhe sonim un inerlekhe konf liktn’, in Yidishe kultur
(NY) 49 10 (1987), pp 18-20
‘Vi kh’hob Y. L. Perets’n gezehn’, in Y. L. Perets: a zamelbukh tsu zayn ondenken (NY:
Literarisher Ferlag, 1915), pp. 43–45. <http://archive.org/details/nybc202046>
‘Vos darf zayn di yidishe literatur in Amerike?’, in Ineynem: zamlbukh 2 (BA: Argentiner
opteyl fun Alveltlekhn yidishn kultur-kongres, 1952), pp. 5–8. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc205665>
‘Y. L. Perets: tsu zayn akhtsntn yortsayt’, Literarishe bleter, 10.15 (1933), 229
‘Yidish’, Yiddish, 12.1 (2000), 29–36
238 Holger Nath
‘Yiddish Literature in the United States’, in Jewish-American Literature: An Anthology of

Fiction, Poetry, Autobiography, and Criticism, ed. by Abraham Chapman (NY: New Ameri
can Library, 1974)
Asch, Sholem, and others, ‘Di lage fun di idishe shulen in Poylen: oyfruf ’, Haynt, 31 January
1923, 5. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref
=SFlULzE5MjMvMDEvMzEjQXIwMDUwMQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=englis
h-skin-custom>
(2.3). Editorial Work
Di naye heym, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu (NY: Literarisher farlag, 1914). 1 vol.
Mayses fun r. Baal-Shem-tov un fun zayne noenste talmidim, ed. by Y. Opatoshu. Fun undzer
oytser, v (NY: Tsiko, 1957) <http://archive.org/details/nybc200555>
Tsen yor Artef: aroysgegebn tsum tsen-yorikn yubiley fun Artef (NY: Posy-Shoulson Press, 1937).
194 pp.
Tsum nayem lebn, ed. by Itsik Kipnis and Yoysef Opatoshu (K: Melukhe farlag, 1940)
Zamlbikher. ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY: [n. pub.], 1936–48)
i (1936): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200612>
ii (1937): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200613>
iii (1938): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200391>
iv (1939): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200380>
v (1943): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200381>
vi (1945): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200382>
vii (1948): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200383>
viii (1952): <http://archive.org:/details/nybc200835>
(3). Alphabetical List of Short Stories and Chapter Headings (*) in

Opatoshu’s Works
Below is a list of Opatoshu’s short stories and the chapter headings in his novels alphabetically
ordered. Chapter headings are marked by an asterisk. The titles of the respective volumes in
which the short stories and chapters were published are indicated with an arrow. Sometimes
Opatoshu used the same title for different short stories or chapter headings. In these cases,
a semicolon separates the respective volumes. The short story ‘Madam Markiz’ is the only
exception with two versions of the same story.
1819–1919 → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Ablis → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Aleksandrye → Tsvishn yamen un lender
Aleyn → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Aleyn in vald → Aleyn
An amerikaner → Oyf zaytike vegn; → Klasnkamf
An amerikanerin → Mi un furem
An anons → Arum di khurves
*Der apikoyres → In poylishe velder
*Aropgelozte oygn → In poylishe velder
Arum a mil → Oyf zaytike vegn
Arum a vasermil → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Arum dem midber fun Arizona → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Arum di fayern → 1863
Arum di khurves → Arum di khurves
Avrom un Hogor → Shtet un mentshn
Azh fun Kentoki → Byanke un andere dertseylungen

A bagegenish → Klasnkamf; * → Di tentserin
*Bakent zikh mir Borekhn → Aleyn
Der bal-tshuve → Arum di khurves
A banket → Arum di khurves
Barbare → Oyf zaytike vegn
Barimt → Arum di khurves
Bay a nakht-lempl → Shtet un mentshn
*Bay Eybin in hoyz → Di tentserin
Bay Fordn in fabrik → Shtet un mentshn
*Bay Mlaver landslayt → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Bay r’ Avremlen in hoyz → Di tentserin
*Bay Reginen → Di tentserin
*Baym breg fun Amerike → Di tentserin
Baym ‘Ist River’ → Klasnkamf
*Baym kardinal → A tog in Regnsburg un Elye Bokher
Baym komisar → Klasnkamf
Baym rov → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Baym telefon → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Baynakht → Di tentserin
Baynakht in Moskve → Shtet un mentshn
Baynakht in salun → Arum di khurves
Bazigt → Mi un furem
Ben-Siros eynikl → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Betl-broyt → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Biber-khapers → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Bitokhn → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Biznes → Klasnkamf
Der biznesman → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Blut → Di tentserin
*Blut un fayer → In poylishe velder
*Borekh kumt tsu gast in vald arayn → Aleyn
*A Braslaver khosid → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Brider → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*’Brider, yidn’ → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
A brilyant → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Der brilyant → Oyf zaytike vegn
Brukhvarg → Klasnkamf
Byanke → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Der daytsh kumt on → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Dem rebns toyt → Oyf zaytike vegn
A demonstratsye → Klasnkamf; → Shtet un mentshn
Detroit → Shtet un mentshn
A dezertirer → Arum di khurves
Di-Rosi → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Di diktatur → 1863
*A din-toyre → Tsvishn yamen un lender
*Di din-toyre → Di tentserin
Dinen got I → Arum di khurves
Dinen got II → Arum di khurves
A dinst-meydl → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
240 Holger Nath
*Der doktor → Di tentserin

Dorf Lvova → Shtet un mentshn
Dray → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Dray hebreer → Shtet un mentshn
*Dvoyrele → In poylishe velder
Dzhim Vang → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Efi → Mi un furem
An elter-zeyde → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Elter-zeydes → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Erev-oyfshtand → 1863
Der ershter patsyent → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Esterl → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Etl → Tsvishn yamen un lender
*Evelin → Di tentserin
Eybikayt → Mi un furem; → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Eyn esreg → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Eyn-arod → Tsvishn yamen un lender
Der farboygener shleyf → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Farheyrat lebn → Di tentserin
Farshlofn → Arum di khurves
A farshnurevet lebn → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
A farshterter shabes → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Fayerdike tslomim → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Fedim → In poylishe velder
Feldmarshal Hazay → Oyf zaytike vegn
A ferd-mageyfe → Mi un furem
*Der ferd-samer → Di tentserin
Ferd-shinder → Oyf zaytike vegn
Feygele → Klasnkamf
Fir hundert yor → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Fir neger → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Firsht Dolgorukov → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Fis → Arum di khurves
Fish → Mi un furem
Flamen → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Mi un furem
Fremde → Mi un furem
Frensis → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Friling → Mi un furem
*Fun der geto → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Fun dos naye → Arum di khurves
Fun Nyu Yorker geto (1914) → Untervelt
A ganz → Arum di khurves
*Gay, shoyn, gay → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Di gele late → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Gelekherte hoyzn → Klasnkamf
A gengster → Mi un furem
A ger → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Gerekhtikayt → Klasnkamf; → Mi un furem
Gertrud → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
A geshleg → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; * → Di tentserin
*Gest → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
A get → Oyf zaytike vegn

Der getsndiner → Oyf zaytike vegn
A geveynlekhe geshikhte (1917) → Untervelt
*Geyresh Kutsbarg → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Geyresh Vulke → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Geyrim → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Dos gezang fun lerer → Shtet un mentshn
Gildene zun → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Glik → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
A gneyve → Shtet un mentshn
A goen → Oyf zaytike vegn
A goldener medal → Mi un furem
Goles → Shtet un mentshn
*Goshtshi → 1863
Gots hoyz → Mi un furem
*’Di groyse improvizatsye’ → In poylishe velder
A hant → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
A hendl → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Heyse vintn → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Hinter di kulisn → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Hintern Dilensi brik → Mi un furem
Hintern shlos → Oyf zaytike vegn
A hoyz oyf Gorek Strit (1917) → Untervelt
Hundert yor → Oyf zaytike vegn
Hunger → Shtet un mentshn; → Mi un furem
A hunt → Mi un furem
Iber Daytshland un Holand → Shtet un mentshn
*Ibergebetn → Di tentserin
Ibergeblibn → Arum di khurves
*Di ideye fun yidish un fun der yidisher literatur → Yidish un yidishkayt
In a boyd → Mi un furem
In a farshneyter velt → Oyf zaytike vegn
In ferd-shtal → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; * → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In a frakht-tsug → Arum di khurves
*In geto arayn → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In a hoyz → Arum di khurves
*In a kabaret → Di tentserin
In a kalter nakht → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
In a keler-shtub → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
In a levone-nakht → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
In a ‘pent-hoyz’ → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
In a rayt-akademye → Mi un furem
In a regndiker nakht → Klasnkamf
In a shlakht-hoyz → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*In a shlep-tsug → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In a shtetl → Mi un furem; * → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*In a vinter-nakht → Di tentserin
In a yidish hoyz → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*In a zaverukhe → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*In a zumernakht → Aleyn
In Ades → Shtet un mentshn
242 Holger Nath
In Amsterdam I → Shtet un mentshn

In Amsterdam II → Shtet un mentshn
In an antikn gesheft → Arum di khurves
In der fremd → Oyf zaytike vegn
In der nakht fun ‘nitl’ → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
In der provints → Shtet un mentshn
*In der sanatorye Moytse <Motsa> → Tsvishn yamen un lender
In der yunyon → Klasnkamf
*In f lamen → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In gerikht → Klasnkamf
In goles → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*In hayntiker Varshe → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In kar → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*In keler → 1863
In kemp → Klasnkamf
*In keynems land → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In Kharkov → Shtet un mentshn
*In kheshvendike regns → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In Kiev → Shtet un mentshn
In Minsk → Shtet un mentshn
In oytomobil → Oyf zaytike vegn
*In ‘polis-steyshon’ → Di tentserin
In Ratnfarband → Shtet un mentshn
*In restoran → Di tentserin
In salun (1917) → Untervelt
In shap → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
In Shikager shlakht-hayzer → Shtet un mentshn
*In ‘shtibl’ → Di tentserin
In shtot → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
In shtrayk → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*In ‘Tshervoni bor’ → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*In ‘tshikn’-mark → Di tentserin
In vald → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen (1914); * → In poylishe
velder; * → Di tentserin; * → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
In Varshe → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
In Vilne → Shtet un mentshn
In Viner ‘yidnshtot’ → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
In Zamoshtsh → Mi un furem
An ‘italyener’ → Arum di khurves
Itshele → Klasnkamf
A ‘izraelayt’ → Arum di khurves
*Kalikes → Di tentserin
Karl Marks → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Karpn → Mi un furem
*Der kdoyshes-Leyvi un der anti-Kristu → In poylishe velder
Kdoyshim → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A kebs-vayb → Arum di khurves
Keyn Oslo I → Shtet un mentshn
Keyn Oslo II → Shtet un mentshn
Keyver-Yisroel → Oyf zaytike vegn
Khaloymes → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
A khasene → Oyf zaytike vegn

A khasene oyf a beys-oylem → Klasnkamf
Khaveyrim → Klasnkamf; * → Di tentserin
Khevre ‘Horevanye’ → Klasnkamf
A ‘khevreye kdishe’ → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Khosn-kale → Di tentserin
Khsidish-negidish → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Der khumesh-bokher → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Khupe vekidushn → Klasnkamf
*Dos khupe vekidushn fingerl → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Khurbn → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Kidesh hashem → 1863
*Kiem — nisht untergang → Yidish un yidishkayt
A kinder-shtetl → Shtet un mentshn
A kinstler → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Kishef → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Kivke ganev → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Klasn → Klasnkamf
Klasnkamf → Klasnkamf
Di klole → Arum di khurves
A knap yorhundert → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Kolya → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Komedyantn → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Di ‘komune’ → 1863
Konsilyum → Arum di khurves
Kontrabandistn → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen (1915); * → 1863
A korbn → Arum di khurves
Korki → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Kortn → Oyf zaytike vegn
Kotsk → Mi un furem
*Koyanim → Di tentserin
Koylngreber → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
A krizis → Klasnkamf
*Kronenberg → Aleyn
Kroyvim → Mi un furem
Kultur → Shtet un mentshn
*Di landslayt bakenen zikh → Di tentserin
Der Laypniker rov → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Lebn → Oyf zaytike vegn
A lektsye → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Mi un furem
A ‘lendler’ → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Lerer → Klasnkamf
*Der letster → In poylishe velder
*Der letster in der mishpokhe → Aleyn
Leybke Mazik (1910) → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen
*Leytenant Frits Ekerman → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Leyzer Kirzhner → Shtet un mentshn
Libe → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Arum di khurves
Libele → Shtet un mentshn
Lili (1915) → Untervelt
Lintsheray → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
244 Holger Nath
A litsitatsye → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Klasnkamf

Lusi Li → Mi un furem
M’ zukht an amerikaner → Arum di khurves
Madam De-Svan → Shtet un mentshn
Madam Markiz (1917) → Untervelt; → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Der ‘magid’ → In poylishe velder
Malkele → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Maranen → Oyf zaytike vegn
Marila → Shtet un mentshn
*Maryan Langevitsh → 1863
Di mashin → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Matones → Klasnkamf; → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Mayn orem shepsele → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Der maynster geyt farkoyfn a bukh → A tog in Regnsburg un Elye Bokher
Me-Beer-Sheva ve-ad Dan → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Melamdim → Klasnkamf
*Malkes → In poylishe velder
Maskilim → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Men fort tsum reben → In poylishe velder
*Men geyt zukhn Reginen → Di tentserin
Mendl → Oyf zaytike vegn
Mentshn → Mi un furem
Meshiekh → Mi un furem
Der meshumed → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Mesires-nefesh → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Meydlekh → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Arum di khurves; → Yidn-legende
un andere dertseylungen
Meyer Balaban → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A mezuze → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Mikhal → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Di milkhome hinter Grodoviski → 1863
A mishpet → Oyf zaytike vegn
Der mishpet → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen (1914); → Arum di
khurves
Di mishpokhe Zak’heym → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*A miting → Di tentserin
*’Mizrekh blumen’ → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Di Mlaver eyde → Arum di khurves
A montik → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Mordkhe un zayn foter → In poylishe velder
*Mordkhes yikhes → In poylishe velder
Moris un zayn zun Filip (1913) → Untervelt
*Moyshe Hes → 1863
Moyshe ligner (1917) → Untervelt
*Di Mrozovskin → Aleyn
Muzik → Klasnkamf
Naket → Arum di khurves
Nakete fis → Oyf zaytike vegn
*A nakht in vald → In poylishe velder
Nay-yor → Mi un furem
*Naye balebatim → Di tentserin
A nayer yishev → Arum di khurves

A nayer yishev? → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Der naynter Pe’n-kongres → Shtet un mentshn
Negers → Klasnkamf
Nekome → Arum di khurves
Nemen → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Der nes → Di tentserin
A nign → Arum di khurves
*’Nisim un psukim’ — an entfer Khayim Grinbergn → Yidish un yidishkayt
*Nokh broyt keyn Varshe → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Nokhn zumer → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Byanke un andere dertsey
lungen
Noyt → Mi un furem
*On der muters viln → Aleyn
Onshtendike mentshn → Klasnkamf
Opgenart zikh → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Der orn-koydesh → Klasnkamf
Oyf a beys-oylem → Oyf zaytike vegn
Oyf a farm → Oyf zaytike vegn
Oyf a lipe-boym → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Oyf arbet → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Oyf der elter → Arum di khurves
Oyf der grenets → Shtet un mentshn
Oyf der Moldavanke → Shtet un mentshn
Oyf der shif → Shtet un mentshn
*Oyf der shif ‘Olimpik’ → Tsvishn yamen un lender
*Oyf der vakh → 1863
*Oyf di nalevkes → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Oyf Gorek-strit → Di tentserin
Oyf Krokhmalne gas → Mi un furem
Oyf Moskver bulvarn → Shtet un mentshn
Oyf Smotshe gas → Mi un furem; * → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Oyf yener zayt brik (1910) → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen
Oyfn ayz → Arum di khurves; * → Aleyn
Oyfn barg Nevo → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Oyfn Gzhibov → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Oygn → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Dos oyser-ministeryum → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Oysgelasene → Oyf zaytike vegn
Oyver botl → Arum di khurves
A parizer meydl → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Parizer nekht → 1863
A parti → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Partizaner → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*A pashkvil → A tog in Regnsburg un Elye Bokher
Der pasport → Oyf zaytike vegn
Patriotizm → Arum di khurves
*A patsh → Di tentserin
Petsh → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Pinkhes → Di tentserin
Pivonye-bleter → Shtet un mentshn
246 Holger Nath
Plonter → Oyf zaytike vegn

A poker → Klasnkamf
Der popugay → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Poylishe velder → In poylishe velder
Poyln → Shtet un mentshn
Pratse → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Der prayzkurant → Klasnkamf
Prezident Smit → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A printsesin (1913) → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen
*Di protsesye → In poylishe velder
*Di ptire → In poylishe velder
*R’ Avreml → Di tentserin
*R’ Avroms toyt → 1863
*R’ Itshe mekubl → In poylishe velder
*R’ Mendele Kotsker → In poylishe velder
*R’ Pinkhes → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
R’ Shabse → Mi un furem
R’ Yeshaye’le Pshedborzher → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Rabonish blut → Klasnkamf
Rase → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Retsikhe → Mi un furem
Rohkl → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
A roman fun a ferd-ganev (1912) → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen
A rov → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; → Mi un furem; → Yidn-legende un andere
dertseylungen
A rov un a galekh → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Roym un Yerusholayim → In poylishe velder
Royter fodim → Klasnkamf
*S’ bukh durkh doyres → Yidish un yidishkayt
S’ eybike khupe-kleyd → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
S’ fort a yid keyn Erets-Yisroel → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
S’ iz baym veg → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
S’ redl dreyt zikh → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Shabes → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*A shabes nokhmitog → Ven Poyln iz gefaln; → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Shabses toyt → Di tentserin
A shayle → Arum di khurves
A shidekh → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Shikh-putser (1920) → Untervelt
Di shlakht oyf Muranov → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Shlekhts → Oyf zaytike vegn
Der shlisl → Klasnkamf
*Shloyme Molkho → In poylishe velder
*Shloyme Molkho un Shabse Tsvi → Yidish un yidishkayt
Shmad → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Shmelts-top → Arum di khurves
Shney → Arum di khurves
Shokhntes → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Sholem-Aleykhem-dorf → Shtet un mentshn
Shotns → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen (1915); → Oyf zaytike vegn
(1924); → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen (1944)
A shpas → Mi un furem
A shpil → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
‘Shpil’ tsi ‘naket’ → Arum di khurves
Shrek → Arum di khurves
Di Shrensker rebetsn → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A shtarker → Klasnkamf
Shtet → Shtet un mentshn
*Shteyner → Tsvishn yamen un lender
A shtile froy → Oyf zaytike vegn
Di shtilkayt dertseylt → Oyf zaytike vegn
A shtrayk → Klasnkamf; → Mi un furem
*Der shtrayk → Tsvishn yamen un lender
Shtrayker → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Shtraykers → Oyf zaytike vegn
A shtumer ungar → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Der shturem → Di tentserin
A shturm → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Simkhes lebn → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Simkhes-toyre → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A skeb → Klasnkamf
*Skhar un oynesh → In poylishe velder
A sod → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Sorke leyent ‘Yosele’ → Aleyn
*Sorkes khasene → Aleyn
*Sorkes tnoim un r’ Mendeles yortsayt → Aleyn
Sotsyale umrekht oder libe? → Klasnkamf
*Der Srotsker rov → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
A sumne hoyz → Oyf zaytike vegn
A takhles → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
‘Tate, tate’ → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Terez → 1863
*Tiberye → Tsvishn yamen un lender
*Tiferes → In poylishe velder
Tikn-khtsoys → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A toes → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*A tog in Regnsburg → A tog in Regnsburg un Elye Bokher
A tokhter → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Toyt → Arum di khurves; * → Di tentserin
Toyt-shtrof → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
Toyznt dolar → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
A trotskist → Shtet un mentshn
Troyer → Klasnkamf
Der tsaygfinger → Klasnkamf
Tsen dolar → Klasnkamf
Der Tshekhanover nign → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A tsiganke → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Tsigayner (1914) → A roman fun a ferd-ganev un andere dertseylungen
*Tsipryan Norvid → 1863
*Tsu kines → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
A tsufal → Arum di khurves
Tsurik in Mlave → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
248 Holger Nath
*Tsvantsik yor shpeter → Ven Poyln iz gefaln

Tsvey shvester → Oyf zaytike vegn
Der tsveyter may → Klasnkamf
*Tsvishn khurves → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Tsvishn koyln-greber → Mi un furem
Tsvishn yidishe poyerim → Shtet un mentshn
*Tsvishndek → Di tentserin
Umet → Oyf zaytike vegn
Umru → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
Untervegns → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen; * → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Untervegs → Oyf zaytike vegn
*Der vald blit, Sorke vert tsaytik → Aleyn
Vayblekh → Oyf zaytike vegn
A vays tsigele → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Vayte reykhes → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Vekhter → Klasnkamf
Velvl → Mi un furem
*Ven der soyne hulyet → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Ven men volt khotsh zikher geven → In poylishe velder
*Ven Poyln iz gefaln → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Ven Varshe hot gebrent → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
Verim → Mi un furem
*Vide → Di tentserin
A ‘vindo-kliner’ → Mi un furem
Vinter → Mi un furem
Vintn → Mi un furem
*A vize → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Vladek → Aleyn
*Volf → Di tentserin
*Volf hot khasene → Di tentserin
*Volf vert a khosn → Di tentserin
*Vort-taytsh → A tog in Regnsburg un Elye Bokher
Vos a litvak ken → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Vos iz yidishkayt? → Tsvishn yamen un lender; * → Yidish un yidishkayt
Yam-krankhayt → Arum di khurves
*Yasha partizan → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
*Yerusholayim → Tsvishn yamen un lender
Der yeytser-hore → Lintsheray un andere dertseylungen
*Der yid mit der sher → Di tentserin
*Yidish → Yidish un yidishkayt
A yidish gerikht → Shtet un mentshn
Yidishkayt → Arum di khurves; → Mi un furem; → Yidn-legende un andere dertsey
lungen
Yidn-legende → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
Yikhes → Byanke un andere dertseylungen; → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
*Yitskhok Leybush Perets → Yidish un yidishkayt
Yodish → Shtet un mentshn
Yom-hadin → Yidn-legende un andere dertseylungen
A yoyred → Oyf zaytike vegn
Yoysef Karo → Oyf zaytike vegn
A yubiley-oysgabe → Oyf zaytike vegn
Yugnt → Arum di khurves

A yung → Arum di khurves
Zhidovka → Arum di khurves
Di zholdevke shvilt → Shtet un mentshn
Zind → Oyf zaytike vegn; → Klasnkamf
Zoshe → Byanke un andere dertseylungen
*Zun-fargang → Ven Poyln iz gefaln
(4). Translations
(4.1). English
A Day in Regensburg: short stories, trans. by Jacob Sloan (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society of America, 1968). xiv, 238 pp.
In Polish Woods, trans. by Isaac Goldberg (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of
America, 1938). 392 pp.
The Last Revolt: the story of Rabbi Akiba, trans. by Moshe Spiegel (Philadelphia: Jewish
Publication Society of America, 1952). 307 pp. [translation of: Der letster oyfshtand]
‘Brothers’, in Jewish American Literature: A Norton Anthology, ed. by Jules Chametzky (NY:
Norton, 2001), pp. 254–56
‘Horse Thief ’, in Yisroël: The First Jewish Omnibus, ed. by Joseph Leftwich, trans. by A. B.
Magil (NY: T. Yoseloff, 1953), pp. 515–25
‘Horse Thief ’, in Yisroël: The First Jewish Omnibus, ed. by Joseph Leftwich, 9th reprint of
the revised 1945 edition (London: Henry Pordes, 1963), pp. 710–22
‘Horse Thief ’, in Great Jewish Short Stories, ed. by Saul Bellow (NY: Dell Pub. Co., 1963),
pp. 183–95
‘House on Goerick Street. Madame Marquis. Moishe ‘Liar.’ Race’, in The New Country:
Stories from the Yiddish About Life in America, ed. and trans. by Henry Goodman ([Syracuse,
N.Y.]: Syracuse University Press, 2001), pp. 107–11, pp. 121–24, pp. 146–51
‘A House on Gorek Street; Morris and His Son Philip; The Evil Urge; The Saloon Keeper’s
Girl; Old Age; Saloon — Night; Moyshe Liar; In the Saloon; On the Other Side of the
Bridge’. in Shining and Shadow: An Anthology of Early Yiddish Stories from the Lower East
Side, ed. and trans. by Albert Waldinger (Selingsgrove: Susquehanna University Press,
2006), pp. 277–320
‘Judaism ; President Smith’, in Yiddish Literature in America, 1870–2000, 2 vols., selected,
edited, and with an introduction by Emanuel S. Goldsmith, trans. by Barnett Zumoff
with Shane Baker ( Jersey City, NJ: Ktav Pub. House, 2009)
‘Lampshade King’, in Jewish-American Literature: An Anthology of Fiction, Poetry, Autobiography,
and Criticism, ed. by Abraham Chapman (NY: New American Library, 1974), pp. 17–20
‘The Machine’, in Yiddish Stories: Old and New, ed. by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg
(NY: Holiday House, [1974]), pp. 111 ff.
‘The Machine’, in Favorite Yiddish Stories, ed. by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg (NY:
Wings Books, 1992)
‘May the temple be restored!’, in A Treasury of Yiddish Stories, ed. by Irving Howe and
Eliezer Greenberg, trans. by Bernard Guilbert Guerney (Greenwich, CT: Fawcett
Premier, 1968), pp. 334–38
‘Poker Game in a Synagogue; Family Pride; How the Fight Began’, in Pushcarts and
Dreamers: Stories of Jewish Life in America, ed. by Max Rosenfeld (Philadelphia: Sholom
Aleichem Club Press, 1967), pp. 123–40.
‘Poker Game in a Synagogue. Family Pride. How the Fight Began’, in A Union for Shabbos,
and Other Stories of Jewish Life in America, ed. by Max Rosenfeld (Philadelphia: Sholom
Aleichem Club Press, 1967), pp. 123–40
250 Holger Nath
‘Poker Game in a Synagogue; Family Pride; How the Fight Began [In kar]’, in Pushcarts and
Dreamers: Stories of Jewish Life in America, ed. by Max Rosenfeld, reprint (Philadelphia:
Sholom Aleichem Club Press, 1993), pp. 137–40
‘Romance of a Horse Thief ’, in A Shtetl and Other Yiddish Novellas, ed. by Ruth R. Wisse,
Library of Jewish studies (NY: Behrman House, 1973), pp. 141–212 <http://books.
google.de/books?id=s6Cpp2PZhTIC>
‘Simhat Torah’, in The Sukkot/Simhat Torah Anthology, ed. by Philip Goodman (Philadelphia:
Jewish Publication Society, 1988)
‘Winter Wolves’, in Great Stories of All Nations: One Hundred Sixty Complete Short Stories
from the Literatures of All Periods and Countries, ed. by Maxim Lieber and Blanche Colton
Williams (NY: Tudor, 1933)
(4.2). French
Dans les forêts de Pologne, trans. by L. Blumenfeld, rev. and adapted by Y. Michel-Baer. Préf.
de Manès Sperber. Présences du judaïsme (Paris: Ed. A. Michel, 1972). 284 pp.
‘Du Ghetto de NY: Roman’, in Royaumes juifs: trésors de la littérature yiddish, 2, ed. by Rachel
Ertel (Bouquins (Paris). Paris: R. Laffont, 2009)
‘Quatres nègres’, in La Bande: revue littéraire, Varsovie 1922, Paris, 1924, Volumes 1–2, ed. by
Rachel Ertel (Paris: Lachenal & Ritter, 1989), pp. 23–50
(4.3). German
Der Aufstand: ein Roman, trans. by Siegfried Schmitz (Berlin: Welt-Verlag, 1929). 191 pp.
Bar Kochba: Roman = Der letzte Aufstand, ed. by Vera Hacken, trans. by Emanuel Hacken,
Bücher der goldenen Pawe, v (Stuttgart: Edition Weitbrecht, 1985)
Bar Kochba: der letzte Aufstand: Roman, trans. by Emanuel Hacken, Bibliothek jiddischer
Erzähler (Munich: Goldmann, 1987)
Der letzte Waldjude, trans. by Siegfried Schmitz (Berlin: Welt-Verlag, 1928). 319 pp.
Der letzte Waldjude: Ein Roman, trans. by Siegfried Schmitz, Der Heine-Bund (Berlin:
Heine-Bund, 1928)
Ein Tag in Regensburg, trans. by Evita Wiecki and Sabine Koller, with Diane Mehlich,
Verena Hämmerle, and Sandra Birzer, with an afterword by Sabine Koller, frontispiece
by Marc Chagall (Regensburg: Karl Stutz, 2008). 119 pp.
‘Gericht über “Judas” ‘, ytrans. by Siegfried Schmitz, Menorah, 5.6 (1927), 391–95 <http://
www.compactmemory.de/>
‘Im Exil’, trans. by Siegfried Schmitz, Menorah, 7.11 (1929), 583–86 <http://www.
compactmemory.de/>
‘Der Klan’, trans. by Siegfried Schmitz, Menorah 7.2 (1929): 102–05 <http://www.
compactmemory.de/>
‘Pferdediebe’, in Jiddische Geschichten aus aller Welt, ed. by Hermann Hakel (Tübingen and
Basel: [n. Pub.], 1967), pp. 167–81. [excerpts from Roman fun a ferd ganev]
(4.4). Hebrew
Anashim v. e-h. utsot, ‘ivrit, D. B. Malkhin. La-kol (Merh.avyah: [Ha-K.ibuts ha-artsi ha-shomer
ha-tsa’ir], [1945]). 271 pp.
Bar-Kokhba: roman, ‘kerekh 2. shel ha-roman ha-histori mi-tekufat ha-mered ha-ah.’aron.’
Tirgem mi-ketav yad A. Ben-Yis’ra’el (Avi ‘Oded). Le-khol (Merh.avyah: Sifriyat po’alim,
1953)
Be-tsel ha-dorot: (mini’at. urot hist. oriyot), ‘ivrit Menasheh Lev.in. Doron (Merh.avyah: Sifriyat
Po’alim, [1945])
Be-ya’arot Polin: roman, tirgem mi-ketav-yad M[ordekhai] Lipson (NY: A. Y. Shtibel, 681
[1921]. 334 pp. <http://www.hdl.handle.net/2027/mdp.39015025867436> [translation of:

In poylishe velder]
Dare mat. ah: [sipurim], [‘ivrit, D. B. Malkin]. Kitve Y. Opatoshu, ii (Merh.avyah: Sifriyat
po’alim. [1946]). 343 pp.
1863 [i.e. Elef shemoneh me’ot shishim v. e-shalosh]: roman: sefer sheni meha-trilogyah ‘Bi-ye’arot
Polin,’ tirgem A. Fishk. in. Sifriyat Shtibel, ii (TA: Sifriyat Sht. ibel, 689 [1929]). 189 pp.
ha-Mered ha-ah. aron: roman hist. ori, ‘Kerekh 2. shel ha-roman ha-histori mi-tekufat ha-mered
ha-ah.aron’, tirgem mi-ketav yad A. Ben-Yis’ra’el (Avi ‘Oded). Le-khol (Merh.avyah:
[Ha-K.ibuts ha-artsi ha-shomer ha-tsa’ir], 1947)
h. urban Polin, ‘ivrit, M[ordekhai] Lipson (NY: ‘Ogen, 707 [1947]). 214 pp. [translation of:
Ven Poyln iz gefaln]
Me’ah sipur v. e-sipur, tirgem: Dov Sadan. Ketavim, i (Merh.avyah: Sifriyat Po’alim, [1955]).
411 pp.
Morim: roman, ‘ivrit, M[ordekhai] Lipson (NY: Ha-’Ivri, 1918). 263 pp. <http://www.hdl.
handle.net/2027/mdp.39015025867402> [translation of: Hibru]
Rabi Ak. iva, mi-ketav ha-yad Asher Ben-Yisrael (TA: Sifriyat Po’alim, 1947). 355 pp.
Rabi Ak. iva, mi-ketav ha-yad Asher Ben-Yisrael. La-khol, Sifriyat Yalk. ut. and Mered ha-
ah.aron (TA: Sifriyat Po’alim, 1955)
Yom be-Regenspurk, tirgum Dov Sht. ok. . Doron, mis. 411 (Merh.avyah: [Ha-k. ibuts ha-artsi
ha-shomer ha-tsa’ir], [1943]). 79 pp.
‘Goalenu meshih.enu atah!’, in Mikre’ot Yiśrael h. adashot, ed. by Nathan Perski (TA: Masadah,
1983), pp. 504–06
‘Mitat Kushi’, in Leket sipurim mi-sifrut yidish, ed. by K. A. Bertini (TA: M. Nyuman, 1958)
(4.5). Hungarian
Mordecháj az erdei zsidó, Zsidó irodalom barátai (Budapest: Tabor, [1935?])
(4.6). Norwegian
‘Tempelet er ødelagt’, in Jødiske fortellere, ed. by Ragnar Kvam (Stabekk: Den Norske Bokk
lubben, 1983)
(4.7). Polish
Dzień w Regensburgu (W: Wydawn. M. Fruchtmana, 1935)
Polly, krew sobacza: powieść, trans. by Józef Braun and Michał H. Piątkowski (W: Księgarnia
Popularna, 1927)
Romans koniokrada, trans. by Salomea Ginsberg, Mirjam Wolman-Sieraczkowa, and B
Rozencwajg (W: Safrus, 1928). [Romans koniokrada / przełożyła Salomea Ginsberg
— Cyganie / przełożyła Mirjam Wolman-Sieraczkowa — Lyncz / przełożył B. Rozen
cwajg]. 205 pp.
W lasach polskich, aut. przek. z żydowskiego Saula Wagmana (W: Gitlin, 1923). 314 pp.
Żydzi walczą o niepodległość Polski: powieść na tle powstania roku 1863, przełożył Aleksander Dan
(W: Instytut Wydawn. ‘Renaissance’, 1931)
(4.8). Portuguese
‘Kivke, o ladrão’, Arquivo Maaravi: revista digital de Estudos Judaicos da UFMG, 1.5 (2009).
(Originally published in O conto ídiche. Tradução, seleção e notas de Jacó Guinsburg.
São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1966, pp. 289–93.)
<https://www.ufmg.br/nej/maaravi/contoiossefopatoschu-crimes.html>
252 Holger Nath
(4.9). Romanian
Linşaj, detrans. by Gustav S. Gal. Biblioteca Pentru toti, 1561–1562 (Bucharest: Editura
Socec & Co, [193?])
Păduri poloneze, trans. by I. Ludo (Bucharest: Editura Bicurim, 1945). 296 pp.
(4.10). Russian
Čistil’ščik obuvi (Moscow: [n. pub.], 1939)
[Rasskazy], translated from the Yiddish with a biographical-critical essay by O. Rapaport.
Evrejskie pisateli v (Shanghai: Evrejskaja kniga, 1943). 129 pp.
Roman konokrada, trans. by Zinaida Ioffe (Kh: Proletarii, 1929). 125 pp.
V pol’skix lesax: trilogija (M; Leningrad: Zemlja i Fabrika, 1929)
V pol’skix lesax: roman, translated from Yiddish by I. Nusinov, V. Černin, I. Janskoj. Proza
evrejskoj žizni (M: Tekst: Knižniki, 2011). 443, [5] pp.
‘Rodoslovnaja Morduxa’, excerpt from V pol’skix lesax, translated from Yiddish and edited
by Iriny Janskoj, (2009). preprint. <http://booknik.ru/publications/all/iosif-opatoshu-v-
polskih-lesah/>
(4.11). Spanish
Razas: relatos de la vida cosmopolita en los Estados Unidos, traducción del idisch y prólogo de
Salomon Resnick (BA: Editorial Judaica, 1943). 152 pp.
El romance de un ladrón de caballos, traducción y prólogo del Dr. Juan Goldstraj, Cuadernos
de valores judíos, i (BA: Editorial SEM, 1933)
Schabat y otros relatos, detrans. with notes by Luis Kardúner (BA: Comité de Recepción y
Homenaje A. J. Opatoshu, 1952). 111 pp.
(4.12). Ukrainian
Linčuvannja, trans. by St. Rudnyčenko (Kh: Dvou literatura i mystectvo, 1931). 79 pp.
V pol’skyx lisax, trans. by Zinaida Ioffe (Kh: Vydavnytstvo ‘Ukrajinskyj Robitnyk’, 1929).
237 pp.
(4.13). Translation Project
Kramer, Tamara, [Radio Interview with Michael Wex on his Opatoshu translation
project], in Shtetl on the Shortwave. (Montreal, 17 May 2013). <http://archive.org/details/
ShtetlWex20130517>
Schaechter, Sore-Rokhl, ‘Opatoshu onlayn’. In Forverts (24 May 2013). <http://yiddish.
forward.com/articles/169665>
(5). Published Letters

‘Briv fun Y. Shtern, Y. Y. Zinger, Z. Kalmanovitsh un Matisyohu Mizish’, in Zamlbikher
7, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY, 1948), pp. 451–62. <http://www.archive.
org:/details/nybc200383>
‘Briv fun Dovid Bergelson, Perets Markish un Maks Erik tsu Sh. Niger, Y. Opatoshu, M.
Elkin’, in Zamlbikher 8, ed. by Yoysef Opatoshu and H. Leyvik (NY, 1952), pp. 85–119.
<http://www.archive.org:/details/nybc200835>
‘Briv fun Avrom Reyzen tsu Y. Opatoshu (geshribn in yor 1912)’, in Di feder: zaml-shrift far
literatur, kunst un kritik, ed. by Arn Karlin (NY: [n. pub.], 1953), pp. 257–58. <http://www.
‘Bimkem a hagdome’, in Tea Arciszewska, Miryaml: dramatisher tsikl in fuftsen bilder (London,
Canada: Aroysgegebn fun Melekh Grafshteyn, 1958), pp. 9–10. <http://www.archive.

‘Bimkem a hagdome: dray briv’, in Tea Arciszewska, Miryaml: dramatisher tsikl in fuftsen
bilder (Paris: Di goldene pave, 1959), pp. xv–xviii. <http://www.archive.org/details/
nybc205975>
‘Tsu Yoysef Opatoshu, 27.4.1915’, in Briv fun Sholem-Aleykhem: 1879–1916, ed. by Avrom
Lis (TA: Bet Shalom-Alekhem, 1995), pp. 599–601, no.706. <http://www.archive.org/
details/nybc214669>
Altshuler, Mordechai, ed., Letters of Soviet Yiddish writers. Jerusalem: Hebrew University,
Center for Research and Documentation of East-European Jewry, 1979. [includes letters
by Perets Markish (pp. 249–341); Yitskhok Nusinov (pp. 356–66); Shloyme-Yankev
Nyepomnyashtshi (pp. 373–79); Leyb Kvitko (p. 455) to Opatoshu]
Berman, A., and Emanuel Ringelblum, ‘A briv keyn Amerike tsum Yidishn visnshaftlekhn
institut (YIVO), tsum Yidishn pen-klub, tsu Sholem Ash, H. Leyvik, Y. Opatoshu, R.
Mahler’ (1944), in Yidishe kultur 45(3) (1983), pp. 9–12.
Estraikh, Gennady, ‘Y. Y. Zingers “histerye”, oder a fusnote tsu an ander artikl’, Forverts,
22 December 2006, 11. <http://www.yiddish.forward.com/node/682> [includes letter by
I. J. Singer to Opatoshu]
Harshav, Benjamin, and Barbara Harshav, Marc Chagall and his Times: A Documentary
Narrative (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004) [includes letters by Chagall to
Opatoshu]
Lifshits, Yekhezkl, ‘Briv fun yidishe shrayber’, in Pinkes far der forshung fun der yidisher
literatur un prese, ed. by Shloyme Bikl (NY: Alveltlekher Yidisher Kultur-kongres, 1965),
pp. 311–82 [letters by Perets Markish to Opatoshu, pp. 319–59]
(6). Secondary literature

(6.1). English
Cohen, Bernard, Sociocultural Changes in American Jewish Life as Reflected in Selected Jewish
Literature (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1972). [includes discussion
of Lintsheray]
Cooperman, Hasye, and Jacob Katzman, ‘Joseph Opatoshu (1887–1954)’, in Hasye
Cooperman and Jacob Katzman, Yiddish Fiction in America, Jewish People’s University of
the Air (NY: Touro College, 1979)
Estraikh, Gennady, In Harness: Yiddish Writers’ Romance with Communism. Judaic traditions
in literature, music, and art (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2005. [includes
Opatoshu’s trip to the USSR]
Faierstein, Morris M., ‘The Friday Night Incident in Kotsk: History of a Legend’, Journal
of Jewish Studies, 34 (1983), 179–89
Getzoff, Barbara, ‘Y. Opatoshu’s Aleyn: the development of a novel, 1911–1919’
(unpublished master’s thesis, Columbia University, 1979). iii + 63 leaves
Hertz, Aleksander, The Jews in Polish Culture, trans. by Richard Lourie, foreword
by Czesɫaw Milosz (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1988). [includes
discussion of :In poylishe velder]
Krutikov, Mikhail, Yiddish Fiction and the Crisis of Modernity, 1905–1924 (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2001)
Lehmann, Rosa, Symbiosis and Ambivalence: Poles and Jews in a Small Galician Town (Oxford;
NY: Berghahn Books, 2002). [includes discussion of Yidn-legendn]
Madison, Charles A., ‘Opatoshu novelist’, The Menorah Journal, 4 (1938), 316–26
——, ‘Joseph Opatoshu: Novelist of Imaginative Gusto’, in Yiddish Literature: Its Scope and
Major Writers (NY: F. Ungar Pub. Co, 1968), pp. 326–47
254 Holger Nath
Miron, Dan, From Continuity to Contiguity: Toward a New Jewish Literary Thinking (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2010). [includes passages on In poylishe velder]
Niger, Shmuel, ‘New Trends in Post-War Yiddish Literature’, Jewish Social Studies, 1 (1939),
337–58. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/4615100>
Opalski, Magdalena, and Israel Bartal, Poles and Jews: A Failed Brotherhood (Waltham,
MA: Brandeis, 1992). [includes discussion of In poylishe velder]
Patt, Jacob, ‘Joseph Opatoshu’, Jewish Spectator ( June 1952), 22–24
Rubin, Philip, ‘review of Patriots’ Revolt: The last revolt: The Story of Rabbi Akiba. By Joseph
Opatoshu. Translated by Moshe Spiegel. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of
America’, in New York Times Book Review (7 September 1952), p. 29
Tanny, Jarrod, City of Rogues and Schnorrers: Russia’s Jews and the Myth of Old Odessa
(Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2011). [includes discussion of Roman fun a
ferd-ganev]
(6.2). German
Best, Otto F., Mameloschen: Jiddisch — eine Sprache und ihre Literatur. 2nd edn (Frankfurt a.
M.: Insel, 1988), pp. 272–75
Eidherr, Armin, ‘Jiddischistische Ideologie und Poetik bei Josef Opatoschu und der Zusam
menhang mit seinen Identitätskonzepten — im Spiegel seiner theoretischen Schriften
und ausgewählter literarischer Werke’, Paper presented at: Tagung am Alfred Krupp
Wissenschaftskolleg Greifswald. ‘Osteuropäisch-jüdische Literaturen im 20. und 21. Jahr
hundert: Identität und Poetik’, 18–21 April 2012 (Greifswald, 2012). [Conference paper]
H., N., [review of: Der letzte Waldjude], Menorah, 6.11–12 (1928), 723 <http://compactmemory.
de/>
Koller, Sabine, ‘Zwei Leben für die yidishkayt — Yoysef Opatoshu und Marc Chagall’,
in Marc Chagall: russisch-jüdische Grenzgänge zwischen Literatur und Malerei, ed. by Sabine
Koller (Cologne, Weimar, and Vienna: Böhlau, 2012), pp. 317–32
Koller, Sabine, ed., Ein Tag im jüdischen Regensburg mit Joseph Opatoshu und Marc Chagall
(Regensburg: Verlag Karl Stutz, 2009)
Leyvik, H., ‘Iber di khurves shteyt der yid un brent ...: tsu Y. Opatoshu, tsu zayn 60-stn
geburtstog — ‘Über den Trümmern steht ein Jude und brennt’ ... — Joseph Opatoshu
zu seinem 60. Geburtstag’, in Ein Tag im jüdischen Regensburg mit Joseph Opatoshu und Marc
Chagall, ed. by Sabine Koller (Regensburg: Verlag Karl Stutz, 1998), pp. 116–17
Liptzin, Sol, ‘Joseph Opatoshu’, Encyclopaedia Judaica, xv (1972), 436–37
Miron, Dan, Verschränkungen: über jüdische Literaturen, trans. by von Liliane Granierer.,
with a foreword by Dan Diner (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007). [includes
discussion of A tog in Regensburg]
R., O., [review of: Der letzte Waldjude], Bayerische Israelitische Gemeindezeitung, Heft 5, 1
March 1929, 72–73. <http://www.compactmemory.de>
Sperber, Manès, ‘Joseph Opatoshu’, in Churban: oder, Die unfassbare Gewissheit: Essays,
Manès Sperber, Jewish people’s university of the air (Vienna, Munich, and Zurich:
Europaverlag, 1979)
(6.3). Polish
Kielewicz, Jan, ‘Nowy laureat nagrody Nobla’, Wiadomości, 34.11/1720 (1979), 1. <http://
kpbc.umk.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=2218>
Kozarnynowa, Zofia, ‘Żydzi w Polsce’, Wiadomości, 16.42/811 (1961), 2. <http://kpbc.
umk.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=10058>
Nowaczyński, Adolf, ‘Ofensywa Griaduszczyj Cham’, in Myśl Narodowa: Tygodnik
Poświęcony Kulturze Twórczości Polskiej, 14.38 (1934), 555. (p. 555, right column) <http://
www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=152958>
Pawlokowa, H., ‘217. J. Opatoszu: Polly, krew sobacza’, Przegląd Oświatowy: Miesięcznik
Towarzystwa Czytelni Ludowych w Poznaniu, 22.11 (1927, 324. [very short summary]
<http://www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=126202>
Szabłowska-Zaremba, Monika, ‘Komparatystyczne studia nad literaturą polską i
żydowską- twórczość Józefa Opatoszu’. Paper presented at Język i kultura jidysz jako
przedmiot akademicki w Polsce — Uniwersytet Warszawski i Żydowski Instytut Historyczny
(Warsaw, 19–21 March 2006). [conference paper]
——‘Portrety matek, kochanek, żon i buntowniczek w powieściach Józefa Opatoszu i
Izaaka Baszewisa Singera’. Paper presented at Kobiety w kulturze jidysz. IV Wrocławska
Konferencja Judaistyczna, Uniwersytet Wrocławski (Wrocław, 24–25 September 2007).
[conference paper]
——‘Oto Polska właśnie — o literaturze, kulturze i historii Polski w powieściach Józefa
Opatoszu’, in Dialog międzykulturowy w (o) literaturze polskiej, ed. by Marta Skwara,
Katarzyna Krasoń, and Jerzy Kazimierski (Szczecin: Wydawn. Naukowe Uniwersytetu
Szczecińskiego, 2008), pp. 485–503
Wulf, Józef, ‘Dialog polsko-żydowski’, Wiadomości, 20.12/990 (1965), 3. <http://kpbc.
umk.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=6817>
‘“Dlaczego mój brat pachnie żydem”: Oświadczenie znanego pisarza p. J. Bandrowskiego’,
Gazeta Wągrowiecka: pismo ziemi pałuckiej, 16 (124), 28 May 1936: 3. <http://www.wbc.
poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=245557>
‘Nauka a cywilizacje’, Myśl Narodowa. Tygodnik Poświęcony Kulturze Twórczości Polskiej, 16.49
(1936), 765–67. (p. 767). <http://www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=153411>
‘Polonica: Pisarze żydowscy’, Wiadomości, 12.13/574 (1957), 5. <http://kpbc.umk.pl/dlibra/
docmetadata?id=12208>
‘Robotnik polski’, Gazeta Wągrowiecka: pismo ziemi pałuckiej, 16.100, 29 April 1936, 1–2. (p.
2). <http://www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=245533>
‘Żydowski tupet’, Gazeta Wągrowiecka: pismo ziemi pałuckiej, 16.93, 21 April 1936, 1–2.
<http://www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=245526>
(6.4). Russian
Estraikh, Gennady, ‘Opatošu i Birobidžan’, My zdes’, 385, 27 December 2012–2 January
2013. <http://www.newswe.com/index.php?go=Pages&in=view&id=5529>
(6.5). Yiddish
Alperin, A., ‘Oyf ’n idishn kultur-kongres in Pariz: di referatn fun Leyvik un Opatoshu’,
Haynt, 23 September 1937, 4. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUE
n&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzcvMDkvMjMjQXIwMDQwMA%3D%3D&Mode=
Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
Bastomski, Sh., ‘Tsum 50stn geboyrntog fun Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Der khaver (Vilna) 2 (72)
(February 1937), pp. 33-8 <http://www.epaveldas.lt/vbspi/biSerial.do?biRecordId=2679>
Bernshteyn, Yitskhok, ‘Vi azoy hot di hayntike shturmishe tsayt gevirkt oyf der literatur’,
Haynt, 1 July 1938, 7. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Ente
r=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzgvMDcvMDEjQXIwMDcwMQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Lo
cale=english-skin-custom>
Bikl, Shloyme, ‘Opatoshu — nesh: bamerkungen tsu zayn yoyvl’, in Detaln un sakhaklen:
kritishe un polemishe bamerkungen (NY: Matones, 1943), pp. 134–39. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc206193>
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Shrayber fun mayn dor, b’ 1, Shloyme Bikl (NY: Matones, 1958,
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu un Dovid Berglson’, in Pinkes far der forshung fun der yidisher literatur
un prese, ed. by Shloyme Bikl (NY: Alveltlekher Yidisher Kultur-kongres, 1965), pp. 3–21
256 Holger Nath
Borochov, Ber, ‘Y. Opatoshu’, in Shprakh-forshung un literatur-geshikhte, ed. by Nakhmen

Mayzil (TA: Farlag Y. L. Perets, 1966), p. 352
Cahan, Ab., ‘“In poylishen veldel” ‘: a kritishe batrakhtung fun Opatoshus historishen
roman fun khsidishen leben’, Forverts, 26 November 1922, 3
Domankevitsh, Leyzer, ‘Y. Opatoshus kinstlerishe konstruktsye fun historisher yidishkayt’,
in Fun aktueln un eybikn: eseyen (Paris: [n. pub.], 1954), pp. 180–86. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc206912>
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Verter un vertn. ([TA]: Farlag Y. L. Perets, 1965), pp. 55–62.
Eyner, ‘review of: Teatralne notitsen: ‘Tsentral’: ‘Heys blut’: a drame in 4 akten fun Y. Opa
toshu. Rezhi A. Samberg. Dekoratsye V. Vayntroyb’, Haynt, 12 November 1922, 4. <http://
www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjI
vMTEvMTIjQXIwMDQwMQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
Erik, Maks, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye’, in IKUF-almanakh 1967, ed. by Nakhmen Mayzil
(NY: IKUF, 1967), pp. 300–08. <http://archive.org/details/nybc205676>
Estraikh, Gennady, ‘Der ershter tsuzamenfor fun sovetishe shrayber’, Forverts, 3 August
2012. <http://yiddish.forward.com/node/4622>
——‘Di heterotopye fun yidishland’, Forverts, 4 May 2012. <http://yiddish.forward.com/
node/4392>
——‘Mayn friling sezon fun konferentsn’, Forverts, 11 May 2012, 11. <http://yiddish.
forward.com/node/4402>
——‘Mer vi eyn por teg in Regensburg’. Forverts, 8 May 2009, 11. <http://yiddish.
——‘A por teg in Regensburg’, Forverts, 25 June 2010, 11. <http://yiddish.forward.com/
node/3019>
——‘Regensburg vi der tsenter fun Opatoshu-forshung’, Vayter, 9 (2011). <http://yiddish.
——‘Shakhne Epshteyn — a mentsh a retenish’, Forverts, 30 March 2012. <http://yiddish.
——‘Di shtot Birobidzhan iz 75 yor alt’, Forverts, 26 October 2012. <http://yiddish.
——‘Undzer kultureler temper vinkl’, Forverts, 11 November 2008. <http://yiddish.
Feliks, Ch., ‘review of Opatoshu, 1863: tsveyter teyl fun der trilogye ‘In poylishe velder’. Vilner
farlag fun B. Kletskin, 1926’, in In shpan (Vilna: B. Kletskin, 1926, pp. 150-2). <http://
www.epaveldas.lt/vbspi/biDetails.do?biRecordId=34116>
Ferdman, Shoel, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu: kurtse biografye’, in Bilder un geshtaltn: literarishe
khrestomatye, iii, ed. by Shoel Ferdman (Mexico: Yidishe shul in Meksike, 1973), pp.
70–72. <http://archive.org/details/nybc213663>
Finkelshteyn, Leo, ‘Fun Mlave biz Yerikho: oyfn rand fun Y. Opatoshus roman “Der
letster oyfshtand”’, in Leo Finkelshteyn, Loshn yidish un yidisher kiem: eseyen (Mexico City:
Shloyme Mendelson fond, 1954), pp. 337–63. <http://archive.org/details/nybc209484>
Foygel, A., ‘Simptomen’, Haynt, 2 March 1923, 3. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/
client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjMvMDMvMDIjQXIwMDM
wMQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
Freylikh, Y., Yoysef Opatoshus shafung-veg (Toronto: Gershon Pomerants, [1951]). 162 pp.
<http://archive.org/details/nybc212574>; Contents: Opatoshu/Biblyografishe notitsn
(pp. 9). Oyf naye vegn (p. 15). Vuhin? (p. 23). Gaystike geranglen (p.46). Oyf fremder erd
(p. 74). A shpatsir in heymland (p. 94). Tsum kval fun yidishn loshn (p. 100). Hemshekh
tsvishn Khaults un r’ Akiva (p. 106). Fun Varshever geto biz r’ Akiva (p. 114). Bay di
urkvalun fun undzer heroik (p. 130). Sakhaklen un farglaykhn (p. 152)
Getel, Ferdinand, ‘Betsihungen mit der velt-literatur’, Haynt, 11 November 1928, 4.

<http://jpress.org.il/Default/Scripting/ArticleWin.asp?From=Archive&Source=Page&S
kin=TAUEn&BaseHref=HYT/1928/11/11&PageLabelPrint=4&EntityId=Ar00402&Vie
wMode=HTML>
Glants-Leyeles, Arn, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu: a por zikhroynes-shtrikhn: tsum dritn yortsayt
fun Y. Opatoshu’, in Velt un vort: literarishe un andere eseyen (NY: Ikuf, 1958), pp. 46–64.
Glatshteyn, Yankev, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in In tokh genumen, Yankev Glatshteyn (NY:
Farlag fun idish natsyonaln arbeter farband, 1956), pp. 145–56. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc206732>
[Goldberg, Itshe], ‘Vegn Maks Eriks ophandlung “Yoysef Opatoshus trilogye” ‘, in IKUF-
almanakh 1967, ed. by Nakhmen Mayzil (NY: IKUF, 1967), pp. 298–99. <http://archive.
Grin, Ber, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Fun dor tsu dor: literarishe eseyen (NY: Ikuf un Ber Grin
bukh-komitet, 1971), pp. 230–40. <http://archive.org/details/nybc206855>
Hofer, Yekhiel, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu: vegn zayn bukh dertseylungen “Yidn-legende” ‘, in
Yekhiel Hofer, Mit yenem un mit zikh: literarishe eseyen, i (TA: Y.L. Perets, 1964), pp.
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu — der poylisher yid: tsu zayn fritsaytikn toyt’, in Yekhiel Hofer,
Mit yenem un mit zikh: literarishe eseyen, i (TA: Y. L. Perets, 1964), pp. 189–211. <http://
[Glatshteyn, Yankev], ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Yidishe literatur-antologye far di ershte yorn
Kahan, Yankev, ‘Y. Opatoshu, “Der letster oyfshtand” ‘, in Yankev Kahan, Lebn un trakhtn:
eseyen(NY: Biderman, 1957), pp. 134–39. <http://archive.org/details/nybc208095>
Kahan, Yitskhok, ‘Der poylisher yid — der veltyid — in Opatoshus verk’, in Yitskhok
Kahan, Oyfn tsesheydveg: literatur-kritik, eseyen, impresyes (TA: ha-Menorah, 1971), pp.
Kats, Ben-Tsien, ‘Naye plener tsu rateven dos rusishe identum’, Haynt, 23 September
=SFlULzE5MjgvMDkvMjMjQXIwMDUwMA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=englis
h-skin-custom>
Kenig, Leo, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu? (vegn zayn roman “In poylishe velder”)’, in Leo Kenig,
Shrayber un verk: etyudn un shtrikhn (V: B. Kletskin, 1929), pp. 48–54. <http://archive.org/
details/nybc201958>
Koller, Sabine, ‘Mark Shagal un yidish’, [translated into Yiddish by Mikhail Krutikov],
Forverts, 8 July 2011. <http://yiddish.forward.com/node/3769>
Koralnik, A., ‘Der Kotsker nusekh’, Der tog, 29 May 1921, 7
Krutikov, Mikhail, ‘Der rase-inyen in der yidisher literatur’, Forverts, 27 April 2012, 12.
<http://yiddish.forward.com/node/4373>
——‘“Zamlbikher” — a vizye fun yidisher velt-literatur’, Forverts, 26 October 2012.
<http://yiddish.forward.com/node/4758>
——‘Der poylisher oyfshtand fun 1863’. in Forverts (22 March 2013). <http://yiddish.
forward.com/articles/168745/polish-uprising>
Leyvik, H., ‘Idisher vald: vegen Y. Opatoshu’s roman “Poylishe velder”, farlag M. B.
Mayzel, Nyu York)’. Di tsayt, 12 June 1922, 4
——‘Iber di khurves shteyt der yid un brent: tsu Yoysef Opatoshu: tsu zayn 60-tn
geburtstog’, Unzer moment, 27.9, 24 March 1947, 3
Lirik, A. S., ‘Idish-land: bemerkungen tsum idishen kultur-kongres’, Haynt, 1 October
1937, 4. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=
258 Holger Nath
SFlULzE5MzcvMTAvMDEjQXIwMDQwMw%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-
skin-custom>
Litvak, A., ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Literatur un kamf: literarishe eseyen (NY: Veker, 1933), pp.
Margoshes, Yoysef, ‘Idishe tsenzur: a mayse, velkhe tsiht zikh fun amol biz oyf hayntigen
tog’, Di tsayt, 19 December 1922, 8
Mayzel, Nakhmen, ‘Folks-stil un natsyonaler stil’, Haynt, 21 September 1934, 7. <http://
www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzQ
vMDkvMjEjQXIwMDcwMQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
——‘Di idishe literatur in 1925: algemeyner iberzikht’, Haynt, 8 January 1926, 10. <http://
www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjYv
MDEvMDgjQXIwMTAwMQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
——‘Men vert gornisht mied’, Haynt, 31 July 1936, 7. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/
client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzYvMDcvMzEjQXIwMDcw
Mg%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
——‘A nay verk vegen dem idishen shtedtel’, Haynt, 27 October 1933, 7. <http://www.
jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzMvMTA
vMjcjQXIwMDcwMA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
——‘Der oyfshtand fun’m kinstler’, Haynt, 8 November 1929, 7. <http://www.jpress.org.
il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjkvMTEvMDgjQX
IwMDcwMg%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, Noente un vayte, ii, 2nd edn (V: B. Kletskin, 1929), pp. 110–20.
——‘Y. Opatoshus nay maysterverk’, Literarishe bleter, 10.16/467 (1933), 255–56
——Yoysef Opatoshu: zayn lebn un shafn (W: Literarishe bleter, 1937). 190 pp.
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, Haynt, 7 February 1930, 7. [about In poylishe velder] <http://www.
jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzAvMDI
vMDcjQXIwMDcwMA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
——‘Yoysef Opatoshu (1887–1954)’, in Noente un eygene: fun Yankev Dinezon biz Hirsh
Glik, Nakhmen Mayzil (NY: Ikuf, 1957), pp. 195–207. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc200885>
Mendelson, Yoysef, ‘Epes vegn Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Amol in a halbn yoyvl (BA:
aroysgegebn fun yoyvl komitet, 1943), pp. 465–71.
<http://archive.org/details/amolinhalbnyoyvl00mend>
N., Y. M., ‘Tsvey oyfnahmes far Yoysef Opatoshu’, Haynt, 5 October 1937, 4. <http://
www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5Mzcv
MTAvMDUjQXIwMDQwNA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
Nayman, Y. M., ‘Alt-Kotsk oyf ’n film: tsu der oyffirung fun di ‘Poylishe velder’, shtrikhn
fun Y. Opatoshu’, Haynt, 20 January 1929, 6. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.as
p?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjkvMDEvMjAjQXIwMDYwMQ%3D
%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
Niger, Shmuel, ‘Eyn epokhe — tsvey romanen: etlekhe bamerkungen vegen Opatoshu’s
‘In poylishe velder’ un Sholem Ash’s ‘Tilim-id’’, Di tsukunft, 40 (1935), 242–44
——‘Der royter nign’, in Perets Hirshbayn: tsu zayn zekhtsikstn geboyrntog (NY: [n. pub.],
——‘Y. Opatoshus “In poylishe velder” ‘, in Yidishe literatur-antologye far di ershte yorn
Oyslender, Nokhem, ‘Himlloze kunst: vegn Y. Opatoshu’, in Shtrom, 3 (1922), 60–66.
Pat, Yankev, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Yankev Pat, Shmuesn mit yidishe shrayber (NY: Mekhaber,
Petrushka, Sh., ‘Der ershter Gerer rebe: rebe Yitskhok Meyer Alter, der “Khidushe
Hari”m” ’, in Haynt, 23 November 1928, 5. [about In polnishe velder] <http://www.jpress.
org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjgvMTEvMTEj
QXIwMDQwMg%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
Pikolomini (A. Glants), ‘Zeyfenblozen’, Der tog, 2 December 1922, 7
Pomerants, Gershn, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Gershn Pomerants, Geshtaltn fun mayn dor (TA:
Y. L. Perets, 1971), pp. 36–39. <http://archive.org/details/nybc201990>
Reyzen, Zalmen, ‘Opatoshu, Yoysef ’, in Leksikon fun der yidisher literatur, poezye un filologye,
i, ed. by Reyzen, Zalmen, 3. farbeserte oyf lage (V: B. Kletskin, 1928), pp. 145–51.
Ribalov, Menakhem, ‘Poylishe velder’, Di tsukunft, 1 (1922), 70–73. <http://hdl.handle.
net/2027/mdp.39015085547472>
Ringblum, A., Tsum yidishn visnshaftlekhn institut (Yivo): tsum yidishn pen-klub, tsu Sholem
Ash, H. Leyvik, Y. Opatoshu, R. Mahler (NY: Yivo, 1945)
Rivkin, B[orekh], ‘In poylishe velder’, Di tsayt, 28 August 1922, 4
——Yoysef Opatoshus gang (Toronto: Gershn Pomerants esey biblyotek, 1948). 59 pp.
Rodak, Yankev, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Kunst un kinstler: ophandlungen iber undzere klasiker:
[...] kimat a leksikon un minyatur, Yankev Rodak (NY: [n. pub.], 1955), pp. 87–89. <http://
Rozhanski, Shmuel, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu, der impet fun yidishn lebn’, in Shmuel Rozhanski,
Yidish literatur — yidish lebn: shraybers, bashraybers un vizyonern in undzer literatur-geshikhte,
ii (BA: Ateneo literario en el IWO, 1973), pp. 397–407. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc210068>
Sandler, Boris, ‘Oygust 12, 1952 — der shvartser tog in der geshikhte fun der yidisher
kultur’, Forverts, 8 August 2008. <http://yiddish.forward.com/node/1538>
Sapozhnikov, Gershn, ‘An analitishe ekskursye in Opatoshus kinstlerisher shafung’, in
Gershn Sapozhnikov, Fun di tifenishn: eseyen (BA: Aroysgegebn fun a komitet, 1958), pp.
Saymon, Shloyme [Simon, Solomon]. ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Kinder yorn fun yidishe shrayber,
i, illustrated by Y. Fridlender, ed. by Solomon Simon (NY: Matones, 1936, 2nd edn 1945),
——‘Kinder-yorn. Dray khaveyrim. Di mishpokhe vandert oys’, in Yidishe literatur-antologye
far di ershte yorn mitlshul, ed. by Pinkhes Erlikh (BA: Farlag S. Segal, 1960), pp. 316–18.
Shatski, Yankev, ‘A roman fun poylishen oyfshtand: Y. Opatoshu 1863. Roman, Farlag B.
Kletskin, Varshe-Vilne 1926’, Der farband, 31 (1926), 16–17
Shiper, Yitskhok, ‘Oyfn veg tsu di ur-bilder fun der yidisher neshome: vegn di nayeste
yidishe historishe romanen’, in Varshever shriftn (W: Aroysgegebn durkh dem Literatn-
klub baym Fareyn fun Yidishe literatn un zhurnalistn, 1926/1927), pp. 1–9. [sep. pag.]
Shteynberg, Noyekh, ‘Y. Opatoshu’, in Noyekh Shteynberg, Yung Amerika (NY: Leben,
——‘Y. Opatoshu’, in Noyekh Shteynberg, Yung Amerika, 2nd edn (NY: Leben, 1930), pp.
Shteynberg, Yitskhok Nakhmen, ‘A. Sh. Zaks un Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Yitskhok Nakh
men Shteynberg, Mit eyn fus in Amerike: perzonen, gesheenishn un ideen (Mexico: Yidisher
kultur-tsenter in Meksike, 1951), pp. 108–11. <http://archive.org/details/nybc201074>
Shulner, Dora, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Dora Shulner, Geshtalten un dertseylungen (Chicago:
Y. L. Perets leyen-krayz, 1956), pp. 37–39. <http://archive.org/details/nybc210323>
Shulshteyn, Moyshe, Fun Mlave biz Nyu York (vegn Yoysef Opatoshu). In Moyshe
260 Holger Nath
Shulshteyn, Geshtaltn far mayne oygn: eseyen, portretn, dermonungen (Paris: M. Shulshteyn,
Tenenboym, Shie, ‘Yoysef Opatoshus kurtse dertseylungen’, in Shie Tenenboym, Shnit fun
mayn feld: eseyen, dertseylungen, miniaturn (NY: Sh. Tenenboym bukh-komitet, 1949), pp.
Tshernikhov, Y., ‘Kultur un kiem: ayndruken fun kultur-kongres’, Haynt, 1 October
=SFlULzE5MzcvMTAvMDEjQXIwMDkwMA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=englis
h-skin-custom>
Vaynper, Zishe, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Zishe Vaynper, Idishe shriftshteler (NY: Oyf kum,
Yofe, Mordkhe, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Ringen in der keyt: eseyen, Mordkhe Yofe
(NY: Mordkhe Yofe bukh-komitet, 1939), pp. 77–99. <http://archive.org/details/
nybc200393>
Yofes, Yehude, ‘Tsi meg a kinstler felshen di geshtalt fun a historisher perzenlikhkayt?’,
Der moment, 30 January 1931, 9
Zak, Avrom, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu: tsu zayn ershtn yortsayt’, in Geven a yidish Poyln: eseyen
un dermonungen, Avrom Zak (BA: Aroysgegebn fun Farband fun sheyres hapleyte in
Argentine, 1968), pp. 172–75. <http://archive.org/details/nybc207555>
Zolf, Falik, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Undzer kultur hemshekh: eseyen. Falik Zolf (Winnipeg:
[n. pub.], 1956), pp. 181–93. <http://archive.org/details/nybc207525>
Vayter:.. Y. Opatoshu dem groysen shrayber un kemfer far yidish: tsum fertl yorhundert fun zayn shafn
gevidmet (TA: Yidisher literatn un zhurnalistn klub in Erets Yisroel, 1935). 90 pp.
Yoysef Opatoshu: tsu zayn bazukh in Lite (Kovno: Aroysgegebn fun der Yidisher literatn-
grupe in Lite, 1938). 15 pp.
‘Der felker-bund fun di shrayber’. Haynt, 25 June 1928, 3. <http://www.jpress.org.il/
Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjgvMDYvMjUjQXIw
MDMwNA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘Fun alts tsu bislekh: 25 yohr shtriftshtellerishe tetigkayt fun Yoysef Opatoshu’. Haynt, 22
March 1935, 7. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True
&Ref=SFlULzE5MzUvMDMvMjIjQXIwMDcwNA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=en
glish-skin-custom>
‘Fun alts tsu bislekh: Y. Opatoshu in Erets-Yisroel’. Haynt, 1 June 1934, 7. <http://www.
jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzQvMD
YvMDEjQXIwMDcwNQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘Fun der idisher literatur’. Haynt, 22 January 1932, 7. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/
client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzIvMDEvMjIjQXIwMDcwM
Q%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘Groyser bagrisung-ovend far Y. Opatoshu in Literatn-fareyn’, Haynt, 8 June 1928, 12
<http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlU
LzE5MjgvMDYvMDg jQXIwMTIwMg%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-
custom>
‘Di iberzetsung’, Haynt, 9 November 1928, 8. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp
?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjgvMTEvMDkjQXIwMDgxNA%3D%
3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘In Amerike protestirt men, hagam men iz nisht informirt’. Haynt, 18 November 1929,
2. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFl
ULzE5MjkvMTEvMTgjQXIwMDIwMw%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-
custom>
‘’In di poylishe velder’ oyf der idisher bine’’, Haynt, 30 August 1934, 6. <http://www.jpress.
org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzQvMDgvMz
AjQXIwMDYyNQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘A kimat fargesener bestseller’, Vayter 5 (). <http://yiddish.forward.com/node/3950> [about

Sholem Asch and Opatoshu]
‘Nyu York: der onheyb fun der tsaytung ‘Der tog’’. Vayter, March 2009, 3. <http://yiddish.
‘Shabes fayerlekher kaboles-ponem lekoved Y. Opatoshu’, Haynt, 8 May 1931, 10. <http://
www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzEv
MDUvMDgjQXIwMTAwOA%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘Sholem Ash — der geleyenster idisher shrayber’, Haynt, 26 January 1934, 7. <http://www.
jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzQvMD
EvMjYjQXIwMDcwNw%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
‘Y. Opatoshu ferfirt a protses far aroysgebn zayn verk in poylish ohn zayn erloybnish’,
Haynt, 13 May 1931, 5. http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter
=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MzEvMDUvMTMjQXIwMDUwOQ%3D%3D&Mode=Gif&L
ocale=english-skin-custom
‘Yoysef Opatoshu (1886–1954)’. Vayter (December 2008), 3. <http://yiddish.forward.com/
node/1909>
‘Yoysef Opatoshu iz vider in Regensburg’, Vayter (December 2008), 2. <http://yiddish.
(7). Multimedia
(7.1). Filmography
In di poylishe velder, dir. by Jonas Turkow (Poland, 1929) <http://www.imdb.com/title/
tt1064797/>
Romance of a Horsethief = Romansa Konjokradice, dir. By Abraham Polonsky (Allied Artists
Pictures Corporation, 1971). <http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0067686/>
(7.1.1). Criticism
Ign., ‘Wobec filmowanych legend’, Myśl Narodowa: Tygodnik Poświęcony Kulturze Twórczości
Polskiej, 9.2 (1929), 26–27. <http://www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=149666>
‘Film polski: W polskich lasach’, Kino Teatr: ilustrowany dwutygodnik filmowo-teatralny, 1.1, 10
January 1928, [23]. <http://www.wbc.poznan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=117667>
‘“Poylishe velder” in film’, Haynt, 9 July 1928, 6. <http://www.jpress.org.il/Default/client.
asp?Skin=TAUEn&Enter=True&Ref=SFlULzE5MjgvMDcvMDkjQXIwMDYzNw%3
D%3D&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom>
(7.2). Audiobooks
(7.2.1). German
Ein Tag in Regensburg: Hörbuch, Sound recording, read by Wolf Euba und Evita Wiecki.
HörStutz (Passau: Stutz, 2009)
(7.2.2). Yiddish
‘On Gzhibov’, sound recording, read by Aba Igelfeld. Sami Rohr library of recorded
Yiddish books. (Amherst, MA: National Yiddish Book Center, 2004?) <http://archive.
org/details/81JosephOpatoshuOnGzshibov.AbaIgelfeld>
‘R’ Itshe Mekubl (funem roman In poylishe velder)’, in Khsides in der yidisher literatur = The
Chasidic World in Yiddish Literature, Sound recording, read by Michael Ben-Avraham.
([NY]: Forverts, 2007)
262 Holger Nath
Roman fun a ferd ganef, sound recording, read by Sidney Lipsey, Sami Rohr library of
recorded Yiddish books, 3 compact disks (Amherst, MA: National Yiddish Book Center,
2004,?). [sample on http://archive.org/details/JosephOpatoshu-RomanFunAFerdGanev
romanceOfAHorseThief ]
Ven Poyln iz gefaln, sound recording, read by Liba Augenfeld. Sami Rohr library of recorded
Yiddish books, 9 compact disks (Amherst, MA: National Yiddish Book Center, 2004?)
(8). Poems praising Opatoshu

Faynberg, Leonid, ‘Yoysef Opatoshu’, in Leonid Faynberg, Yidish: poeme (NY: Shoelzon,
Lutski, A., ‘Y. Opatoshu (Shrayber in:’Tog’)’, in A. Lutski, Portretn fun shrayber, maler,
muziker, aktyorn un arbeter-firer: di pney fun der idisher velt (Brooklyn: [n. pub.], 1945), pp.
(9). Archival materials

(9.1). Correspondence
Ash, Sholem/Asch, Sholem, 1880–1957. YIVO Archives. Shalom Asch. RG 602. Corresp
ondence with Y. Opatoshu. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Bikl, Shloyme/Bickel, Shlomo, 1896–1969. YIVO Archives, Shlomo Bickel 1920s–1969.
RG 569. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Boraysha, Menakhem, 1888–1949. YIVO Archives. Menahem Boraisha 1915–57. RG 641.
Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Brownstone, Ezekiel, 1897–1968. YIVO Archives. Ezekiel A. Brownstone c. 1928–65.
Byalostotski, B. Y./Bialostotzky, B. J. (Benjamin Jacob), 1892–1962. YIVO Archives.
Benjamin Jacob Bialostozky c.1929–63. RG 479. Includes correspondence with Y.
Opatoshu
Dembitzer, Salamon. Leo Baeck Institute. Archives. Salamon Dembitzer Collection
1908–75. <Correspondence with Opatoshu, pp. 466–70>. <http://archive.org/details/
salamondembitzer_01_reel01#page/n450/mode/1up>
Dluznovski, Moyshe/Dluznowsky, Moshe, 1906–1977. YIVO Archives. Moshe Dluz
nowsky 1930s–1970s. RG 1193. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Elkin, Mendl, 1874–1962. YIVO Archives. Mendl Elkin 1913–61. RG 453. Includes
correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Eynhorn, Dovid/Einhorn, David, 1886–1973. YIVO Archives. David Einhorn 1914–
1940s. RG 277. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Faust, Jack. YIVO Archives. Jack Faust 1927–42. RG 737. Includes a typescript of a speech
by Y. Opatoshu entitled ‘Poland and pogroms perpetrated against Jews’. Opatoshu’s
speech was broadcast over radio station WFAB on 24 March 1936
Faynberg, Leon/Feinberg, Leon, 1897–1969. YIVO Archives. Leon Feinberg 1920s–1968.
Fridman, Filip/Friedman, Philip, 1901–60. YIVO Archives. Philip Friedman 1930s–1959.
Gitsis, M./Ghitzis, Moisey, 1894–1968. YIVO Archives. Moisey Ghitzis 1927–68. RG
598. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Glants-Leyeles, Arn/Glanz-Leyeles, Aaron, 1889–1966. YIVO Archives. Aaron
Glanz-Leyeles 1914–66. RG 556. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Glatshteyn, Yankev/Glatstein, Jacob, 1896–1971. YIVO Archives. Jacob Glatstein
Papers, 1920s–1960s. RG 353. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Golomb, Avrom/Golomb, A. (Abraham), 1888–1982. YIVO Archives. Abraham Golomb

1945–58. RG 455. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Graubard, Benjamin, 1894–1957. YIVO Archives. Benjamin Graubard 1930s–1950s. RG
Hirshbeyn, Perets/Hirschbein, Peretz, 1880–1948. YIVO Archives. Peretz Hirschbein
Kinder Zhurnal and Farlag Matones. YIVO Archives. 1920s–1960s. RG 465. Includes
Kolomyja. Untitled. YIVO Archives. RG 28/P447. Poster, announcement of a lecture on
Joseph Opatoshu’s ‘In poylishe velder’ by M. Hamer, 4/17/1926, Kolomyja
Korman, Ezra, b.1888. YIVO Archives. Ezra Korman 1926–59. RG 457. Includes
Kreytman, Ester, 1891–1954. YIVO Archives. Ester Kreytman 1930s–1940s. RG 341.
Li, Malke/Lee, Malka, 1904–77. YIVO Archives. Malka Lee 1916–64. RG 367. Includes
Leyvik, H./Leivick, H. (Halper), 1888–1962. YIVO Archives. H. Leyvick c. 1914–1959.
Louis Lamed Fund. YIVO Archives. Louis Lamed Fund 1940–60. RG 526. Includes
Marmor, Kalmen/Marmor, Kalman, 1879–1956. YIVO Archives. Kalman Marmor
1880s–1950s. RG 205. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Miller, S. (Isaiah), 1895–1958. YIVO Archives. S (Isaiah) Miller 1940s–1950s. RG 388.
Molodovski, Kadye/Molodowsky, Kadia, 1894–1975. YIVO Archives. Kadia Molo
dowsky. RG 703. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Niger, Shmuel/Niger, Samuel, 1883–1955. YIVO Archives. Shmuel Niger 1907–1950s.
Opatoshu, Yoysef/Opatoshu, Joseph, 1886–1954. YIVO Archives. Joseph Opatoshu
1901–60. RG 436. Correspondences, documents, lectures, manuscripts, press clippings,
reviews, reports, manuscripts of other authors, materials on Poland, photographs, and
reproductions of drawings
Oved, Moshe, 1883–1958. YIVO Archives. Moshe Oved c. 1915–58. RG 396. Includes
Pinski, Dovid/Pinsky, David, 1871–1959. YIVO Archives. David Pinski 1893–1949. RG
Podolsky, W. E., 1888–1961. YIVO Archives. W. E. Podolsky c. 1914–61. RG 461. Includes
Ribalov, Menakhem/Ribalow, Menachem. Jewish Theological Seminary of America
Archives. Papers 1917–51. ARC 95.Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Rivkin, B., 1883–1945. YIVO Archives. Boruch Rivkin 1930s–1960s. RG 476. Includes
Rozenfeld, Shmuel/Rosenfeld, Samuel, 1869–1943. YIVO Archives. Samuel Rosenfeld
Shatski, Yankev/Shatzky, Jacob, 1893–1956. YIVO Archives. Jacob Shatzky 1912–c.
1960. RG 356. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Shtarkman, Moyshe/Starkman, Moshe, 1906–1975. YIVO Archives. Moshe Starkman
Stern, Morris, b. 1884. YIVO–Archives, Morris Stern 1910–1949. RG 231. Includes
Tenenboym, Shie/Tenenbaum, Shea, 1910–1989. YIVO Archives. Shea Tenenbaum
1940s–1960s. RG 722. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
264 Holger Nath
Treyster, Leyzer/Treister, Leizer, 1905–1981. YIVO Archives. Leizer Treister 1920s–

Tsharni, Danyel/Charney, Daniel, 1888–1959. YIVO Archives, Daniel Charney 1920s–
Wischnitzer, Mark, 1882–1955. YIVO Archives, Mark Wischnitzer 1927–55. RG 767.
Yeshiva University. Records 1840-<c.1979>. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Yidishe kultur-gezelshaft/Yiddish Culture Society. YIVO Archives. Yiddish Cul
ture Society 1928–43. RG 258. Includes correspondence with Y. Opatoshu
Yidisher Kultur Farband (NY). YIVO Archives. Yidisher Kultur Farband (NY) 1906–
Yofe, Mordkhe/Jaffe, Mordecai, 1899–1961. YIVO Archives. Mordecai Jaffe 1909–60.
Zemel, Yitskhok/Zemel, Yitzhak. YIVO Archives. Yitzhak Zemel 1945–50. RG 576.
Zhitlovski, Khayim/Zhitlowsky, Chaim, 1865–1943. YIVO Archives. Chaim Zhitlowsky
(9.2). Photographs
Aaron Glanz-Leyeles and Joseph Opatoshu.YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 361.
Photographs of personalities
Aaron Glanz-Leyeles, Joseph Opatoshu, Efraim Auerbach, and H. Leivick pose together,
1950s. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 327. Photographs of personalities
American delegates to the Paris meeting of the Congress of Jewish Culture. YIVO
Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 378. Photographs of personalities
Congress for Jewish Culture, Paris, France, 1937. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no.
206. Photographs of personalities
A group of Yiddish writers in a huddle, pose for a portrait. YIVO Archives. RG 1270.
Archive no. 285. Alter Kacyzne photographs
Group portrait, 1950s. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 292. Photographs of
personalities
Group portrait of Joseph Opatoshu, Kartaginski, Slonim and an unindentified man. YIVO
Group studio portrait including: Melech Ravitch, Joseph Opatoshu, Nachman Meisel,
Peretz Marksih, and I. I. Singer, 1920s–1930s. YIVO Archives. RG 1270. Archive no.
577. Alter Kacyzne photographs
H. Leivick and Joseph Opatoshu together: one, a formal portrait, the other, a snapshot of
them sitting on the grass. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 232. Photographs of
personalities
H. Leivick, Joseph Opatoshu, and Aaron Glanz-Leyeles pictured together. YIVO Archives.
RG 121. Archive no. 121. Photographs of personalities
H. Leivick, Peretz Markish, Joseph Opatoshu, and Melekh Ravitsh pose together, c. 1925.
YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 229. Photographs of personalities
Image of Glanz-Leyeles, Menachem Boraisha, and Joseph Opatoshu, 1926. YIVO Archives.
RG 121. Archive no. 128. Photographs of personalities
Joseph and Adele Opatoshu and Glanz-Leyeles and Fania Glanz pose together, 1920s. YIVO
Joseph Foshko’s caricature, ‘Kibitzarnie Literary Cafe’ 1910s. YIVO Archives. RG 121.
Archive no. 249. Photographs of personalities
Joseph Opatoshu, I. Chaimowitz, I. Schwartz, and Samuel Fox pose together outdoors,
c1916. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 310. Photographs of personalities
Joseph Opatoshu, H. Leivick, and Aaron Glanz-Leyeles pose with their wives, 1920s.
YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 234. Photographs of personalities
Joseph Opatoshu, H. Leivick, Shmuel Niger, and Menachem Boraisha seated around a
dining table. 1950s-1960s. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 213. Photographs of
personalities
Lamed Shapiro Fund event, 1953. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 308. Photographs
of personalities
Photo by Alter Kacyzne of the first editorial board of ‘Literarishe bleter’, 1923. YIVO
Portrait of Joseph Opatoshu. Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Art Department
Portrait Letter O, PST 516
Samuel Fox, Joseph Opatoshu, and David Ignatov pose together, 1916. YIVO Archives. RG
121. Archive no. 094. Photographs of personalities
Snapshot of Jewish cultural figures, 1922. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 013.
Two snapshots taken on the deck en route to Argentina, 1951. YIVO Archives. RG 224.
Archive no. 094. Photographs of personalities
Workmen’s Circle banquet, 1940s–1950s. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 353.
Yiddish writers pose together. 1916?. YIVO Archives. RG 121. Archive no. 101. Photographs
of personalities
INDEX
❖
Abramowicz, Dina 223 Berdichev 41

Adler, Yankl 27 Bergelson, David (Dovid) 9, 37, 40, 48–50, 77, 94, 98,
Ahad Haam 79 99, 151
Akiva, Rabbi 5, 16, 122 his meetings with Opatoshu 38, 47
Alberton, Meir 52 n. 53 Bergman, Arn 217
Altdorfer, Albrecht 5 Bergson, Henri 114
Altshuler, Moshe 46 Berlin 37, 38, 48, 103, 200
All-Ukrainian Association of Proletarian Writers Bernstein, Fishl 27
(VUSPP) 44 Biale 101
America 4, 5, 6, 13–15, 18, 21, 22, 35, 36–38, 40–41, Bialik, Hayyim Nahman 204
49, 50, 55, 58–59, 61, 98, 107, 108, 137–58, 160– Bickel, Shlomo 18
70, 172–81, 184–97, 199–201, 203, 207, 210–11, Bikher-velt 56, 60, 62
216, 222 Birobidzhan (also Jewish Autonomous Region) 9, 11,
North 7, 36, 59, 87, 216, 226, 228 48–50
South 29, 200, 216, 226 Bloch, Ernst 92
United States of 6, 8, 11, 26, 27, 35–37, 39, 41–42, Bloyshteyn (Blaustein), Ozer 204, 213 n. 42
47, 48, 51, 55, 58–59, 87, 97, 141, 172–73, 175– Borokhov, Ber 5, 120
76, 186, 190, 199, 208, 215–17, 220–25, 227–29 Boyer, Paul 174
American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee 40–41 Brandenburg 118
Anderson, Sherwood 115, 180, 181 Braslav (also Bratzlav) 41, 201, 202
An-ski, S. 42, 77 Brecht, Bertolt 200
Anti-Semitism 70, 102, 104, 185, 192, 202, 205–06 Bronx, the 5, 27, 170, 171 n. 16
Antin, Mary 191 Brooklyn 171 n. 16
Argentiner beymelekh (Little Argentine Trees) 216, 219 Buber, Martin 12, 72, 76, 88, 92, 105, 106
Asch, Sholem 57, 63, 68, 77, 99, 108, 137, 138, 139, Bucharest 217
151, 175, 178, 179, 181, 225 Buchwald, Nathaniel 172–73, 178, 181
and his God of Vengeance 46, 176, 200 Buenos Aires 26, 216–17, 219, 226, 232
and Forverts 37, 64, 197 n. 22 Burke, Georgia 185, 195 n. 3, 196 n. 16
and the use of the Christ motif 75–76
on America 98, 143–45, 147, 148 Cahan, Abraham 35, 44, 56, 64, 141, 143, 178
Ashkenaz 12, 13, 50, 113, 114, 116–17, 121, 126, 128 Cambridge 113
Atlantic Ocean 1, 11, 65, 137, 218 Camus, Albert 200
Augsburg 120 Carpathian Mountains 206
Australia 200 Catskill, NY 201
Austria 70, 72, 135 Central Publishing House of Peoples of the Soviet
Union 217
Bacon, Francis 199, 206 Central School Organization (TSYSHO) 217
Bakhtin, Mikhail 80 Chagall, Marc 5, 6, 18, 27, 31, 38, 51, 76
Bakunin, Mikhail 79 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor 117
Balaban, Meyer (Bałaban, Meir) 62, 71 Charney, Daniel 31
Bal-Makhshoves (Elyashev, Yisrol) 66 n. 13, 98 China 185
Bar Kochba 5, 121, 122 Chopin, Frédéric 84 n. 50
Bastomski, Shloyme 216–17, 225 Cleve, Duchy of 118
Baudelaire, Charles 200 Comintern 8, 43, 47, 49–50
Bavaria 5, 117, 124 Communism 3, 11, 35, 42, 105, 230 n. 25
Bellow, Saul 181 Connecticut 27
Bely, Andrei 160 Copenhagen 48
Benjamin, Walter 92 Cosmopolitanism 119, 146
268 Index
Crane, Hart 180 Fire!! 197

Crimea 8, 9, 48 Florida 196 n. 16
Croton Falls, NY 18, 19, 27, 29 Forel, August 179
Forverts (Forward) 35–37, 43, 46, 53 n. 57, 56, 60, 64,
Damesek, Abraham 47 138, 141, 190, 196 n. 14, 197 n. 22, 231
dance of death 118, 129 Foucault, Michel 161, 166, 171, 201
Deleuze, Gilles 199, 202, 206, 207 France 1, 21, 29, 33, 70, 84 n. 52, 121, 186
Der Nister 12, 52 n. 53, 94 Vichy 6
Der Emes (Truth) 46–47, 52 n. 53 France, Anatole 135 n. 42
Der khaver (The Friend) 216, 225 Frank, Jacob 62, 86, 88, 91, 93
Der moment (Moment) 97 Frank, Leo 52–53 n. 53, 190
Der tog (Day) 6, 8, 13, 16, 22, 26–27, 36–37, 50, 6, 60, Frank, Waldo 197 n. 18, 198 n. 25
137–39, 151, 158 n. 2, 3, and 4, 185, 190, 200, 218 Fraye arbeter shtime (Free Voice of Labour) 57, 60, 63
Der yidisher kemfer (The Jewish Fighter) 57–58 Frayhayt (Freedom) 8, 38, 43–47, 141
Detroit 224, 239 Frenkel, Eliezer 218
Di naye heym (The New Home) anthology 3, 56, 160, Freud, Sigmund 114, 203
162, 171
Di naye yidishe folksshul publishing house 216–17 Galicia 69, 143, 144, 164, 169
Di tsukunft (Future) 2, 56–58, 186, 218, 221 Georgia 53 n. 53, 185, 190, 195 n. 4, 196 n. 16
Di Vokh (Week) 43, 45–46, 141 Germany 1, 2, 5, 13, 115, 118, 130, 203
Di yidishe velt (The Yiddish World) 63, 88 Glantz, Dina Levitt 24
Di Yunge (The Young Ones) 2–3, 22, 35, 55–56, 138, Glantz, Fanya 24, 25
151, 160–61, 231 Glantz-Leyeles (Glanz), Arn 18, 24, 25, 26, 29, 184, 185
Diner, Hasia 190 Glicenstein, Enrico 27
Dinezon, Yankev 219 Glikl Hameln (Glückel of Hameln) 13, 118, 119
Dix, Otto 212 n. 16 Goldberg, Ben Zion 50
Dos naye land (The New Country) 2 Goldberg, Isaac 14, 172, 174, 175, 181
Dos Passos, John 115 Goldberg, Itche 217
Dostoevsky, Fyodor (Fedor) 12, 71, 77, 78, 80, 86, 87, Goldfaden, Avrom 122
89–91, 93, 164 Gorky (Gorki), Maxim 45, 200
Dreiser, Theodore 115, 116, 174, 178, 180, 181 Grade, Chaim 7, 137
Dubnov, S(h)imon 13, 88, 114, 132 Graetz, Heinrich 13, 114, 132, 133 n. 2
Dunets, Khatskel 40 Greenwich Village 14, 165, 177–80
Dvořák, Antonín 76 Grinberg, Uri Tsvi 75
Grininke beymelekh (Little Green Trees) 216
East & West 14, 175–77, 181, 182 n. 20 and 21 Grosz, George 212 n. 16
East River 168, 212 n. 17 Grottger, Artur 71
Eibeschuetz, Jonathan 91 Grzybów (also Gzhibov, Grzybov) 169, 202, 203
Elbe, Leon 225 Guattari, Pierre-Félix 199
Eliasberg, Alexander 69 Gutman, Refoyel 218
Elkin, Mendl 26
Elye Bokher (Elia Levita, Elijah Bah. ur, Elie Bocher) Halevi, Yehuda 2, 213 n. 40
112, 116 Halper(i)n, Moyshe Leyb 22, 104, 161, 195 n. 2
Engels, Friedrich 79 halutzim (Zionist pioneers) 41
Epshtein (Epshteyn), Shakhno (Shakhne) 46, 47, 60, Hasenclever, Walter 200
63, 140–42, 154, 155 Hasidism 76–77, 79–80, 83 n. 36, 88–89, 156
Erik, Max (Maks) 12, 13, 60, 63, 69, 77, 88, 89, 94, Haskalah 80, 106
113–18, 120, 127–32 Hebron 43
eroticism 13, 81, 172–83 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 70, 79,
Erskine, John 175 84 nn. 52 & 56
eschatology 93, 187 Heidegger, Martin 200, 201
expressionism 99 Heine, Heinrich 119
Hemingway, Ernest 115
Faulkner, William 111 n. 36, 211 n 1. Herzen, Aleksander 75
Fefer, Itsik 50, 51, 122 n. 6 Herder, Johann Gottfried 70
Felitowicz, Zygmunt 71, 82 n. 17 Hermalin, Dovid Moyshe 204, 213 n. 42
Film Velt (Film World) 110 n. 6 Herzl, Theodor 79, 84 n. 55, 92
Index 269
Hess, Moses 1, 2, 12, 73, 79, 80, 86, 92, 95 n. 25, 105 Kościuszko, Tadeusz 79, 83 n. 24, 110 n. 19
Hirsch, Samuel 79 Kotsk (Kock) 12, 62, 63, 65, 69, 71, 75–77, 83 n. 36,
Hirschbein, Peretz 8, 37 86, 88–90, 97, 99–102, 105–07, 109, 142, 153–54,
Hitler, Adolf 13, 48 156–58, 173, 243
Hoëné-Wronski, Joseph 75, 79 Kovne (Kaunas) 98, 109 n. 5
Hoensch, Jörg 70 Kozhenits 76
Holocaust 6–7, 32, 108–09, 139, 186, 199, 202, 204, Krafft-Ebing, Richard von 179
217, 221 Krantz, Philip 190
Hudson River 27 Krasiński, Zygmunt 70, 85 n. 63
Hugo, Victor 204, 210 Krochmal, Nachman 79, 82 n. 23, 84 n. 54 and n. 56
Hungary 125 n. 62 Krutikov, Mikhail 86 n. 43, 107, 111 n. 33
Ku Klux Klan 40, 205
Iaşi 217 Kultur-Lige 8, 10–11, 36–38, 43, 47, 50, 52 n. 23,
Ignatov, Dovid 2, 3, 35, 55, 151, 160–61, 171 58–60, 66 n. 14 and 15, 190 n. 3, 218
In shpan (In Harness) 37
In zikh (Inside the Self) 7 In Warsaw, 58
Inzikhist poets 99 publishing house Kultur-Lige 52 n. 53
Istanbul (also Stamboul) 121, 129 Kvitko, Leyb
Israel, State of 29, 33, 72, 122, 200, 211 n. 12, 226
Land of 48 Landy, Michał 71, 72, 82 n. 27
see also Palestine Landau, Zishe 22, 35
Ioffe, Zinaida 40, 45 Lawrence, D. H. 181
Italy 84 n. 52, 121, 185 Leivick, Daniel 24
Leivick, H. 18, 24, 29, 37–38, 59, 75, 99, 141, 143, 155,
Janáček, Leoš 199 159 n. 6
Jerusalem 6, 49, 73 and Frayhayt 8, 43, 44, 46
Jewish Antifascist Committee 47, 51 and his poem The Golem 99, 104
Jewish Autonomous Region see Birobidzhan and Zamlbikher 7–9, 107
Jewish Historical-Ethnographic Society 88 Lelewel, Joachim 84 n. 50
Jewish Teachers’ Seminary 216 Lenin, Vladimir 42
Jordaens, Jakob 5 Lesser, Aleksander 71
Joselewicz, Berel 110 n. 19 Leshtshinski, Yoysef 58
Joyce, James 111 n. 36, 181 Levant 169
Levita, Elia see Elye Bokher
Kafka, Franz 199, 201, 206, 211 n. 1, 212 n. 28 Leyeles see Glantz-Leyeles
Kahane, Philip 73, 79 Lewis, Sinclair 115
Kant, Immanuel 1, 79, 103 Lieberman, Chaim 53 n. 57
Katz, Moyshe 60, 61 Liptzin, Sol 87, 127, 133 n. 3
Kazdan, Khayim Shloyme 58, 217, 221–22, 224 Literarishe bleter (Literary Pages) 4, 37, 40–41, 46
Kenig, Leo 62–64, 68, 69, 77, 80, 81, 83 n. 35, n. 39 Literatur (Literature) almanac 2
and 42 Literaturnaia gazeta (Literary Newspaper) 48, 50
Khalyastre (Gang) 5 Lithuania 72, 144
Kharik, Izi 50 Litvakov, Moshe 47, 50
Kharkov (Kharkiv) 40, 45–46, 63, 140, 167, 232 London 75
Khayemovitsh, M. Y. 56 Lower East Side 14, 22, 145, 150, 162–63, 168–71
Kherson 41 Lukács, Georg 12, 99
Kiev 2, 8, 9, 10, 36–38, 40, 47, 52 n. 53, 58, 60,
66 n. 14, 232 Maccabeus, Judah 121
Kiev Group of Yiddish writers 2 Madison, Charles 173
Kinder-zhurnal (Children’s Journal) 216, 218–19, 225, Maimon, Salomon 103
228 n. 8 Maimonides, Moses 1, 2, 103
Kingham, Victoria 178, 179 Mané-Katz, Emmanuel 27
Kipnis, Itsik 215 Manger, Itzik 7, 122 n. 2, 128
Kletskin, Boris 3, 30, 59, 109 n. 3, 140, 168, 221 Manhattan 5, 18, 27, 211 n. 8
Kling, Joseph 14 Mani Leib (Brahinsky) 22, 35, 179, 217
Klinov, Yeshayahu 48 Marc, Franz 199
Knopf, Alfred A. 174 Margolin, Anna 158 n. 4
270 Index
Marietta, Georgia 53 n. 53 New York State 18

Markish, Peretz 3, 9, 39, 40, 44–47, 50, 51, 75, 93, 99, Nice 6
104, 140 Nietzsche, Friedrich W. 114, 203, 207
and Birobidzhan 11, 48 Niger, Shmuel 8, 20, 35, 36, 60–63, 65, 98, 110 n. 17,
in Paris 5 111 n. 36, 141, 151, 215
in Warsaw 31, 38 Norwid, Cyprian Kamil 11, 68, 70–73, 76
Markish-Lazebnikova, Esther 40 Nomberg, Hersh Dovid 60, 62, 68, 84 n. 57, 89, 94,
Marmor, Kalman 46 98
Marshak, B. 47 Norich, Anita 172
Marx, Karl 3, 79, 92, 117, 127, 142 Nusinov, Isaac (Yitskhak) 38–40, 45, 46, 49, 87, 169
Mayzel, Maks n. 55
Mayzel (Mayzil), Nakhmen 30, 31, 58, 59, 65, 98, O’Bolger, T.D. 175, 176, 177
110 n. 7, 146, 160, 223 Odessa 2
Mazzini, Guissepe 84 n. 52 Olgin, Moshe (Moissaye) 43, 46, 47, 49, 57
Melamed, Zelig 58, 59 Opatoshu (Wolfe), Adela 5, 10, 18, 20, 21, 23–26, 34
Mencken, H. L. 179 Opatoshu (Opatovski), Joseph: and America, 8, 13, 14,
Mendelssohn, Moses 103 137–58, 160–71
Mendele Moykher Sforim 128, 143, 204 and Birobidzhan 11, 48, 49, 50
Menorah 5 and children’s literature 15, 177–81, 215–28
messianism 11–12, 75–76, 79–81, 84 n. 52, 86, 90–93, and Kultur-Lige 8, 10, 11, 36, 37, 43, 50, 58, 59,
95 n. 28, 105 66 n. 14
Mexico 6 and Marc Chagall 5–6
Michelet, Henri 84 n. 52 and Palestine 3, 29, 43, 44, 48, 49, 105, 141,
Miciński, Tadeusz 77 230 n. 25
Mickiewicz, Adam 11, 68, 70–72, 75–80, 105, 186 and the Soviet Union 9–11, 35–51
Mikhoels, Solomon 48, 50, 51 and Yiddishland 9, 50, 98, 135 n. 35, 205
Miller, Cristanne 173 and Yiddish PEN Club 38, 100
Miron, Dan 98, 99 eroticism in his writing 13, 14, 81, 172–81
Minsk 9, 38, 40–42, 46, 47, 52 n. 37, 242 his vision of yidishkayt 1–4
Mława (also Mlava, Mlave) 2, 21, 23, 26, 203, 206, 207 his work on Der Tog 6, 8, 13, 16, 22, 26, 27, 36, 56,
modernism (modernist prose) 99, 108,114, 172, 183, 137, 139, 185, 190, 200
189, 193, 197 in Paris 5, 5, 31, 38, 49, 50, 222
Molkho, Shlomo (Shloyme) 87, 88, 91, 94, 104, 106 personal life 18–34
Molodowsky, Kadia 215 works:
Morgn-frayhayt (Morning Freedom) see Frayhayt 1863 3, 11, 37, 40, 47, 56, 60, 63, 69, 70, 72–74,
Mo, Yan 199 79–81, 82 n. 11, 86, 104, 141, 142, 159 n. 9
Moscow 9, 30, 36, 37, 39–41, 45–51, 52 n. 53, 63, 87, A roman fun a ferd-ganev (Romance of a Horse
94, 98, 109, 217, 230 Thief) 2, 40, 45, 55, 56, 57, 64, 66 n. 12,
154, 173, 177, 180, 183 n. 36, 212 n. 30
Nadir, Moshe 49, 50, 179 A tog in Regensburg (A Day in Regensburg) 5, 12,
Nancy 21 13, 112–22, 127–33
Napoleon 76, 100, 104 Aleyn (Alone) 3, 56, 66 n. 5, 81, 86, 107, 151, 154,
Nasz Przegląd (Our Review) 59, 98 181 n. 7, 204, 212 n. 30, 218, 220, 221, 225
naturalism 68, 78, 112, 113, 122 n. 6 Arum grend-strit (Around Grand Street) 13, 40,
Nayer Zhurnal (New Journal) 219 137, 140, 142, 149, 161, 167–71
Nazism 4, 112, 117, 120 Der letster oyfshtand/ufshtand (The Last Revolt) 5,
New Historicism 135 33, 122, 183 n. 37
New Jersey 168, 169 Der mishpet (The Trial) 38, 173, 177, 181,
New York City 1–3, 5, 6, 8, 13–16, 22–23, 27, 29, 32, 182 n. 20 and n. 21, 217–19, 221, 224, 225,
35–36, 38–39, 42–44, 46–48, 55, 56, 59, 66 n. 5, 227
86, 97, 98, 104, 108, 109, 134 n. 15, 137–49, 151, Di tentser(i)n (The Dancer) see Arum grend-strit
153–57, 158 n. 4, 159 n. 13, 160–62, 164–71, 172– Elye Bokher (Elie Bocker) 5, 13, 112
75, 180, 182 n. 7, 185, 199–202, 204, 206, 209, Fun Nyu-yorker geto (From the New York Ghetto)
211 n. 15, 213 n. 42, 216–21, 224–26, 228 n. 6, 3, 14, 56, 57, 145, 146, 151, 154, 161–67, 170,
232 181 n. 7
New York Society for the Suppression of Vice Hibru (Hebrew) 14, 42, 56, 87, 151, 154, 161,
(NYSSV) 14, 172, 174 163–67, 179
Index 271
In polishe velder (In Polish Woods) 11–12, 55–66, Riverside Park 5, 27, 171 n. 9
67–81, 86–94, 97–109 Rivkin, Borekh 3, 4, 12, 57, 60, 61, 98, 107, 108,
Lyntsheray (Lynching) 14, 184–95 111 n. 36, 160, 211 n. 14
‘Moris un zayn zun Filip’ (‘Morris and His Son Robert-Fleury, Tony 71
Phillip’) 2, 55, 56, 177, 178, 180, 181 Rogoff, Hillel 60–62, 64, 175, 176
‘Oyf/Af yener zayt brik’ (‘On the Other Side of Rolnik, Yoysef 56
the Bridge’) 2, 40 Romania 37, 97, 169, 217
Opatovski, David 20, 21 Romanisches Café 38
Opatovski, Nantshe 20, 21 Rome 73, 79, 91, 103–05
Optina Pustyn’ 90 romanticism 13, 64, 68, 78, 81, 151
Orezzo 217, 220 Rosheim 117, 129
ORT 8 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 80, 101
Oslo 38, 242 Rubens, Peter Paul 5
Oyfkum (Rise) 48 Russia 8, 35, 37–39, 59, 86, 143, 185, 221, 229 n. 21
Oyslender, Nokhum 38, 47, 63 see also Soviet Union
Russian Empire 11, 36, 43, 58, 70, 72, 74, 75, 78, 79,
Palestine 3, 29, 43, 44, 48, 49, 105, 108, 141, 230 n. 25 83, 90, 91, 101, 102
see also Israel Ryleev, Kondratii 78
Paris 1, 5, 6, 31, 38, 49, 50, 54 n. 85, 70, 79, 80, 81, 86,
158, 219, 222 Sabbateanism 91, 106
PEN Club 38, 43, 100 Saloniki 105
Peretz, Yitzkhok Leybush 1, 2, 7, 11, 12, 77, 81, 88, Saint-Paul-de-Vence 6
101, 103–07, 132, 143, 179, 217, 222, 223, 225 Sanger, Margaret 178
Pinski, David (Dovid) 178, 181 Schmitz, Sigfried 69
Poland 1–4, 7, 11, 13, 14, 20, 29, 32, 37–39, 43, 48, Scholem, Gershom 12, 92
55, 58–61, 66 n. 13, 69–72, 75–79, 81, 83 n. 24, Scott, Walter 99
85 n. 63, 86, 91, 94 n. 2, 97, 100, 104, 108, 137, Shabbetai (Shabbatai) Z(e)vi 77, 86, 88, 91, 101, 105
139, 141, 144, 151, 158, 168, 173–74, 176, 81 n. 7, Shatski, Yankev 5, 60, 63, 98
185–86, 196 n. 9, 199–203, 207–11, 217, 219, 221, Shmeruk, Khone (Chone) 13, 114, 222
231 Shmuel bukh (Book of Samuel) 120–21, 125 n. 76,
Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth 70, 72 126 n. 86, 128–31, 134 n. 13 and 15
Polonsky, Abraham 183 n. 36 Shneour, Zalman 99, 138
Poniatowski, Józef Antoni 82–83 n. 24 Sholem Aleichem 46, 57, 98, 143, 144, 145, 162, 179,
proletarian literature 40 187, 206, 212 n. 30, 221–23, 225
post-modernism 172 Sholem Aleichem Folk Institute 216
Pound, Ezra 99. 110 n. 13 Shostac, Isabel
Prague 113, 115–16, 123 n. 32, 127–29, 134 n. 26, 204, shpilman see Spielmann theory
210 Shpola 45
Prus, Bolesław 74 Shriftn (Writings) 2
Prussia 70, 72 Shternberg, Yakov 37
Przybyszewski, Stanisław 174 Shtif, Nokhem 114, 117, 118
Putnam County, NY 24 Shtrom (Current) 63
shund (popular fiction) 98, 138
Rabon, Yisroel 75 Shvarts, Y. Y. 55, 56
Rambam see Maimonides, Moses Sienkiewicz, Henryk 74, 83 n. 27
Ravitsh (Ravitch), Me(y)lekh 8, 31, 75 Sinai 4
realism 15, 57, 81, 99, 138, 171, 185, 188, 192–95, 202, Sinclair, Upton 115
210, 223 Singer, Isaac Bashevis 99, 104, 108, 128, 137–39, 194,
Reb Mendele of Kotsk 12, 63, 64, 69, 76 195, 200
Reder, Bernard 27 Singer, Israel Joshua 31, 41, 43, 98, 99, 137–39, 158 n. 5
Regensburg 5, 12, 18, 112, 116, 117, 120–21, 127–30, Sloves, Chaim 222
134, 231 Słowacki, Juliusz 70, 186
Reinhardt, Max 200 Slonim, Yoyl 56
Reisen, Abraham (Avrom) 2, 46, 171 n. 10, 225 Smolenskin, Perez 82 n. 11
Rembrandt 5 socialism 49, 77, 80, 92–93, 94 n. 3, 146, 170, 190
Reymont, Władysław Stanisław 74 Society for the Settlement of Jewish Toilers on the
Rhine 121, 135 n. 27 Land 41
272 Index
Sologub, Fiodor 160 Venice 6

South Africa 200 Verne, Jules 204
Soviet Union 3, 8, 9–11, 27, 29, 13, 32, 37–48, 50–52, Vilna (Vilnius) 2, 33, 36, 38, 78, 97, 108, 109 n. 3, 137,
54 n. 86, 59, 93, 108, 137, 140, 141, 158 n. 5, 140, 150, 168, 216, 217, 225, 232
159 n. 11, 167, 216, 217, 229 n. 13, 230 n. 25 Vistula 27, 69, 77, 100, 173, 176, 177, 219
see also Russia Vladeck, Baruch Charney 35, 36
Spielmann theory 13, 113–15, 117, 120, 122, 127–28, Volga 42
130–32, 125 n. 30 and 35
Staff, Leopold 77 Wallich, Eisik 115
Stalin, Josef 11, 43, 45, 49, 51 Warsaw 2, 5, 9, 21, 26, 36–38, 40, 43, 56, 58, 62, 68,
Stalinism 4 71, 72, 97, 98, 100, 101, 108–10, 130, 160, 168–70,
Stanislaus II August 82 n. 24 185, 196 n. 8, 199, 203, 217, 218, 220, 231, 232
Steinbaum, Israel 216, 218 Warsaw Ghetto Uprising 203
Stobnicki, Ksawery 71 Weinreich, Max 113, 114, 120
Strindberg, August 200, 210 Weinreich, Uriel 226
surrealism 15, 202, 210 Weintraub, Władysław 218
Sutzkever, Avrom 7, 128, 217 Westchester, NY, 24, 27–29
sweatshop poets 55, 186 Wielopolska, Maria Jehanne 77
Switzerland 186 Wiener, Meir 92, 128
symbolism 99 Wisse, Ruth 3, 35, 43, 44, 55, 181
Szyk, Arthur 71 Worms 113, 115, 129, 135 n. 28
Tabatshnik, Avrom-Ber 122 n. 6 Yefroykin, Zalmen 217, 225

Tannhausen, 21, 125 n. 75 Yiddish Club Communist 41
Tarr, Béla 214 n. 53 Yiddish schools 32, 42, 225–26
Tel Aviv 232 Yiddishism 6, 36, 112, 117, 121, 167, 191
The Freeman 173 Yidisher Kultur Farband (YKUF Jewish (Yiddish)
The Menorah 181 Culture Organization) 50
The Pagan 165, 177–82, 182 n. 20 Yiddishland 9, 50, 98, 135, 205
Tkatsh, Avrom 217 Yiddishophonia 200
Tolstoy, Lev (Leo) 71, 77, 78, 80, 204 yidishkayt 1–4, 6, 14, 48, 81, 113 n. 33, 114, 160–64,
Towiański, Andrzej 11, 75, 79 166, 168, 170
Trakl, Georg 199 YIVO (Institute for Jewish Research) 6, 15, 26, 231
Trimberg, Susskind von 130 Yoselman of Rosheim 117
Tsayt (Time) 60
Tsesler, Shmuel 217 Zadonsk 90
Tseytlin, Arn 7, 155 Zamlbikher (almanac) 7–10, 107
Tsvayg, A. R. 46 Zemlia i Fabrika (Land and Factory) publishing house
Turkov, Yonas 98 40
Twain, Mark 185 Żeromski, Stefan 11, 63, 71, 74, 75, 77, 78, 81,
Twersky, Dovid 27 83 n. 27, 84 n. 43
Zhitlowsky, Chaim 36, 50
Ukraine 40, 41, 45, 58, 104, 140, 144, Zilberfarb, Moyshe 58, 59
Upper West Side 171 n. 9 Zinberg, Israel 3, 113
Zionism 5, 79, 86, 105
Varshavsky, Oyzer 38 Zola, Emil 52 n. 53
Vaysenberg, Itshe Meyer 68, 77

Joseph Opatoshu: A Yiddish Writer Between Europe and America

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Joseph Opatoshu: A Yiddish Writer Between Europe and America

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and KRUTIKOV

A Yiddish Writer between Europe and America

Although he occupied a key position in the transnational

cover illustration: Opatoshu at his desk in his New

Opatoshu-9781907975608-cover.indd 1 9/7/13 17:00:26

The Modern Humanities Research Association ( ) encourages and promotes

Professor Malcolm Cook, University of Exeter (French)

Legenda Studies in Yiddish embrace all aspects of Yiddish culture

published in this series

Edited by Sabine Koller,

Modern Humanities Research Association and Routledge

LEGENDA is an imprint of the

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

© Modern Humanities Research Association and Taylor & Francis 2013

ISBN 978-1-907975-60-8 (hbk)

14 Mentshn un khayes (1938): Snapshots of Jewish life in America and Europe

This collection of articles is an outcome of the international academic conference on

In 1914 Opatoshu broke up with Ignatov and started a new publication, Di

describes Opatoshu’s method as ‘subjective objectivism’, whereby the writer dissects

the characters’ strivings’, which is a characteristic feature of the modern Yiddish

In New York Velder

The opening round table discussion at the International Academic Conference

Fig. 1: Yosef and Dan, Croton Falls, NY

Figs 2 and 3 (above): Yosef ’s parents, Dovid and Nantshe Opatovski

Fig. 4 (left): The young Yosef, ‘a rather dashing figure’

Yosef had arrived in America in 1907, doing a variety of low-paying jobs

Fig. 6: Di Yunge: Yosef ’s gang

Fig. 7: Yosef, Adela, and baby Dovid, 1918

Fig. 9: The Glantzes and the Opatoshus,

career. His economic position was somewhat equivalent to a tenured academic at

Fig. 13: Glantz and Leivick visiting

Fig. 14: Moscow, 1934, Conference of Soviet Yiddish Writers

Fig. 15: Kacyzne, Malamud, Opatoshu, Leyvik, Kletskin, Mayzel

Fig. 16: Mayzel, Markish, Opatoshu, I. J. Singer, Ravitsh

Fig. 19: Vilna, 1937

Fig. 20: Yosef and Adela in 1950

Soviet Dreams of a Cultural Exile

Communism [...] is an anxiety, spurt, great excitement, feeling of bitterness

office of a foreign organization, such as the Moscow outlet of American Jewish

to cultivate them. Later, visiting a Jewish agricultural colony, Opatoshu witnessed

sentiment, with the plot developing around the transformation of a synagogue

or the “pure” German of the vulgar middle-class assimilationists’. According to

21. Mayzel, Geven amol a lebn, pp. 289–90.

Faint Praise: The Early Critical Reception

While early versions of several of Opatoshu’s other novels had appeared in

The Publication History of In poylishe velder

Early Critical Responses to In poylishe velder

‘Opatoshu in Poland’. Unsigned cartoon

The Two Souls of Mordkhe:

Izraelowi, bratu starszemu, uszanowanie, braterstwo, pomoc na drodze ku jego

Introduction: Opatoshu Lost and Found in Polish Woods

The History of Polish Jews: A Golden Age and an Iron Age

A (Failed) Polish-Jewish Brotherhood: The Jew with the Cross

Corpses and Crows: Deconstructing Historical Myths

he recalls a sentence of the Russian philosopher, writer, and democrat Alexander

was enthusiastically embraced in Polish romantic poems. In the anti-Semitic Polish

In poylishe velder between Jewish and Slavic Cultures

‘Kotsker’ tsuzamen mit di fishers gebrakht a korbn — gevorfn dem goylem in

Dostoevsky’s apocalyptic atmosphere, Tolstoy’s refined introspection, and the

History and Philosophy of History

and depends on a common socialist and interreligious struggle.56 Christian–Jewish

Mordkhe’s ‘Rites de Passage’: In poylishe velder as a Coming-Of-Age Novel

3. Leo Kenig, ‘Vu iz Opatoshu?’, p. 51.

implicitly or ironically, Jewishness — and barbarism against modernity. As Opa