Thomas Hardy in Judea

Why we read the book of Ruth on Shavuot.
Thomas Hardy in Judea
From The Story of Ruth, 1876-7, by Thomas Matthews Rooke.
 
Atar Hadari
Observation
May 28 2014 4:11PM
About the author

Atar Hadari, born in Israel and raised in England, is a poet and translator whose Rembrandt’s Bible, a collection of biblical monologues, was recently published in the UK by Indigo Dreams. He writes regularly for Mosaic.


It’s impossible to describe the sound of good preaching in Hebrew. It’s not like the sonorous English of the King James Version, and it doesn’t have the soaring voice or the roars and whispers of preaching in the Baptist tradition. But in the hands of a master preacher and teacher, the Hebrew language yields colors, textures: the fields of the Bible take on shades of red and gold, and the women in the fields have names.

I once heard such a master, Rachel Keren, teaching the biblical book of Ruth to a group of seminary girls. I was the only man in the room; I can’t now remember why. She spoke about the dangers the widowed Ruth, a Moabite, faced on behalf of Naomi, her Jewish mother-in-law, when she went in the dead of night to lie in a harvest field in Judea. She was there to try to persuade Boaz, a cousin of Naomi’s late husband, to marry her and impregnate her with an offspring, thereby continuing the family line and incidentally saving both her and her mother-in-law from death by starvation.

So far, so convoluted. But Rachel Keren taught the Bible as if it were a slightly scandalous novel for young women. In fact a novel by the great and not so pious Victorian novelist Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), set not in rural England but dry, rural Judea. There the color of the land was red or yellow unlike England’s green and brown, but scandal, hostile fate, and an ever-present chorus of gossiping neighbors were facts of life just as much as in Hardy’s fictional Wessex. There was also in Rachel’s version a full sense of the looming danger of rape or other injury as the young widow picked her way among the sleeping shepherd boys to the only one who counted, the one she had to marry in order to put her family history right. As Rachel told it, this was a living and immediate story that could have happened anywhere (but not, she gave the girls to understand, just between us, in Jerusalem where she came from, and certainly not if the mother-in-law had had her wits about her).

 

The story starts with Elimelekh, a rich man who leaves Israel at a time of famine. The rabbinic commentators ask: why? The answer: Elimelekh wasn’t leaving because he would starve, since he was too rich to starve. He was leaving because he didn’t want to meet his social responsibilities and help his neighbors. That’s not only why he left, but why he was wrong to leave, and why things went downhill from there.

It was in the days when the Judges judged
and there was hunger in the land
and a man went from Bethlehem in Judea
to stay in the fields of Moab,
he and his wife and his two sons.
And the man’s name was Elimelekh
and his wife’s name was Naomi
and the name of his two sons Mahlon and Kilyon
of the house of Efrat, in Bethlehem, in Judea.
And they came to the fields of Moab and stayed there.

And Elimelekh Naomi’s man died
and she was left there with her two sons.
And they married themselves Moabite wives
one named Orpah and the other named Ruth
and they settled there for ten years.
and they, too, died, both Mahlon and Kilyon
and the woman was left without her two sons or her man.

And she rose with her daughters-in-law and returned from the fields of Moab
for she heard in the field of Moab
that God had remembered his people to give them bread.
And she went out from the place where she was
and her two daughters-in-law with her
and they walked on the way back to the land of Judea.

And Naomi said to her two daughters-in-law,
“Go, return each woman to her mother’s house,
may the Lord deal kindly with you
as you have done by the dead and by me.
May the Lord give you something and find you rest
each woman in her husband’s home.
And she kissed them and they raised up their voices and wept.

And they said to her, “But we’ll return with you to your people.”
And Naomi said, “Return, my daughters?
Why should you go with me? Have I more sons in my belly
who could be husbands for you?
Return, my daughters, go
for I’ve grown too old to be with a man.
For even if I said I have hope
and this night could even be with a man
and then should bear sons too,
is it for them you’ll waste until they grow?
Is it for them you’ll be tied down, not being with a man?
Don’t do it my daughters for it is far bitterer for me than for you
for the hand of the Lord has come against me.”
And they raised their voices and wept more
and Orpah kissed her mother-in-law goodbye. . . .

Up till now we have a fairly simple story of a man who leaves his home in Judea to “stay” in the province of Moab. He takes his wife and two sons. He dies and his widow chooses to extend the stay by settling in Moab when her sons take wives there. Then the sons die, and the three women start on the road back to Judea, the only place Naomi has anything left. And so far, it is a dog-eat-dog world that is exhibited. There are no social ties that bind, and the Almighty is not mentioned in the narrative until Naomi laments that He has struck her down. We are about to watch her be abandoned by the second of her daughters-in-law when the story takes an unexpected turn: 

But Ruth clung to her.
And she said, “Look,
Your sister-in-law is going to her people and her gods,
go back after your sister-in-law.”
And Ruth said, “Do not chide me to leave you,
to go back from following you
for wherever you go I will go
and wherever you sleep I will sleep.
Your people is my people and your God my God:
Wherever you die I will die
and there I’ll be buried.
So help me the Lord,
for only death will come between me and you:

This declaration of Ruth’s has been taken as the prototype of conversion to Judaism. But there doesn’t appear to have been a conversion in any sense understood by contemporary Orthodox Judaism. There is no rabbinical court before whom the convert makes a promise to obey the commandments. There is no ritual immersion. No subsequent adherence to Jewish practice is mentioned. So where is the conversion? The commentators find it in Ruth’s statement, “your people is my people and your God my God,” a contract sealed by her proceeding to take an oath using the Lord’s name—something that a non-Jew, the commentators observe, would not do. Ruth became a Jew by means of her statement, and as a Jew she took her oath, invoking the judgment of the Lord she had just invited to be her God, and knowing full well that He was not the easiest deity to get along with—as amply demonstrated by the experience of her mother-in-law.

What was in it for Ruth? To answer this question, you have to follow the story:

And she saw that she was firm to go with her
and stopped speaking to her.
And they both walked until they came to Bethlehem
and it was as they came into Bethlehem
all the city buzzed about them
saying, “Is that Naomi?”

And she said, “Don’t call me Naomi,
call me Bitter Woman
for Shadai has made me very bitter:
I went away full and the Lord brought me back empty.
Why should you call me Naomi
when the Lord bore witness against me
and Shadai repaid me ill?”

And Naomi returned with Ruth the Moabite her daughter-in-law
who had returned with her from the fields of Moab
and they came to Bethlehem at the start of the barley harvest.

These lines, at the end of Chapter 1, emphasize the problematic nature of Ruth as prototypical convert. Although she has taken an oath to join her mother-in-law’s people, she is still identified as a Moabite. And here we have the crux of the two women’s challenge. Ruth wants to join the Jewish people and Naomi wants a son, because only through a son can she eat. How will they achieve their goals? We still don’t know, any more than we know what role Ruth, in particular, is playing in the story.

Now Naomi knew a connection of her husband’s,
a great and noble man
of the family of Elimelekh and his name was Boaz:
And Ruth the Moabite said to Naomi, “Let me go to the field and I’ll pick ears
behind whomever I take the fancy of.”
And she said to her, “Go, my girl.”
And she went and came there and picked in the field behind the reapers
and by happenstance she happened on the length of field
of Boaz who was Elimelekh’s relative.
And along came Boaz on the way from Bethlehem
and he said to the reapers, “God be with you.”
and they said to him, “God bless you.”
And Boaz said to his lad who was watching the reapers, “Who’s that girl with?”
And the lad watching the reapers replied,
“A Moabite girl who came back with Naomi
from the fields of Moab, and said, ‘Let me pick and gather between the sheaves
Behind the reapers,’ and she came and she’s been standing since dawn
and till now she’s hardly been home.”

And Boaz said to Ruth, “Do you hear, my girl?
Don’t go picking in another field
and don’t even wander out of this one
and that way you’ll stick with my girls.
Keep your eyes on the field they’re reaping in
and walk behind, because I told the boys not to lay a hand on you
and when you get thirsty go to the barrels and drink
from what the boys draw.”

And she fell on her face and bowed to the ground
and said to him, “Why have I found favor in your eyes
to honor me when I am a stranger?”
And Boaz replied to her and said,
“I heard all about what you did for your mother-in-law
after your husband died and how you left your father and mother
and the land you were born in
and went to a people you didn’t know
the day before yesterday.
The Lord will pay you your due
and may your full reward come from the Lord God of Israel
under whose wing you’ve come to shelter.”

And she said, “Have I found favor in your eyes, milord?
For you’ve comforted me and bucked up the heart of your poor servant
and I’m not even fit to be one of your servants.”
And Boaz told her, “At eating time
you come right here and eat some of the bread
and dip your slice in brine.”
And she sat to one side of the reapers
and he gave her a pinch of roast oats
and she ate and was filled and left some over
and got up to pick and Boaz told his boys,
“Let her pick between the bundles, too,
and don’t make her feel embarrassed.
And even let drop a few drops for her from the bales
and leave them for her to pick and don’t say anything.”
And she picked in the field until evening
and she sorted what she had picked
and there was about ten days’ worth of food.
And she carried it and came back to town
and showed her mother-in-law what she’d picked
and brought out and gave her what she’d left after eating her fill.

And her mother-in-law said to her,
“Where did you pick today, and where did you stay?
May whoever distinguished you be blessed.”
And she told her mother-in-law who she’d worked with
and said, “The man’s name that I worked with today
is Boaz.” And Naomi said to her daughter-in-law,
“Bless the Lord
who did not withhold His kindness from the living and the dead.”
And Naomi told her, “He’s our relation, the man is one of our redeemers.”
And Ruth the Moabite said, “Not just that,
but he told me—Stick with my boys till they finish all the harvest.”
And Naomi said to Ruth her daughter-in-law,
“That’s good my girl
because you’ll go out with his girls
and they won’t hurt you in another field.”

And she stuck with Boaz’s girls as they picked
to the end of the barley harvest and the oat harvest
and she settled with her mother-in-law.

Here at least there is a nod to the presence of the Lord as someone other than a legal authority and a harsh judge. When the text says Ruth happened to chance into this particular field and Boaz happened to come along just then on the road, we have a strong suggestion of what in the Bible turns out to be benign divine intervention and what in Thomas Hardy inevitably signals the workings of malevolent fate. Which way will this novel turn out: Judea, or Wessex?

And Naomi her mother-in-law said to her,
“My girl, haven’t I always been on the lookout for you to find a resting place
that’ll be good for you: and now isn’t Boaz our relation,
whose own girls you were out with,
sifting the barley grain right now, tonight?
Now you wash yourself and get yourself perfumed and put your best dress on
and go on down to the grain store.
Don’t let that man know about you till he’s done eating and drinking,
and when he’s lain down and you know where he’s lying
then come and uncover his legs
and lay yourself down
and he’ll tell you what to do next.”
And she said to her, “Whatever you tell me—I’ll do.”
And she went down to the grain store and did all her mother-in-law said.

This is the racy part of the novel, the part that reads most like scandalous Hardy. And in translating it I find the voice of Naomi coming through like one of those wise women in the blues, lamenting her woes and advising her sisters not to make the same mistakes she did. But we still can’t quite make out Ruth as she follows these worldly instructions. Why is she going to do what her mother-in-law tells her to?

And Boaz ate and drank and his heart was feeling good
and he came and lay down at the end of the pile
and she came softly and uncovered his legs and lay down.
And it was come the middle of the night that the man started up and reached out
and here was a woman lying at his feet.
And he said, “Who are you?”
And she said, “I am Ruth
your handmaid
now spread your cloak over your handmaid
for you are a redeemer.”
And he said, “God bless you my girl
you’ve done a better deed with your last than your first
by not running after the boys
neither rich nor poor: and now my girl you have no fear
all you’ve said I will do for you
for everyone who comes in the gates of town knows
that you’re a noble woman.
But now for all that I am next in line for redeemer
there is still a closer redeemer than I am.
Stay the night and come morning
ff he will redeem you, well shall he redeem
and if he doesn’t care to redeem, I’ll redeem you personally
I swear to God.
Lie you down until morning.”

And she lay at his feet until morning
and she rose before a man might know his friend
and he said, “Let it not be known
the woman came to the grain store.”
But he said, “Give me the kerchief about you
and hold it”—and she held it out
and he measured six measures of grain
and hung it about her neck
and he came to the town and she came to her mother-in-law
and she said, “Who are you, my girl?”
And she told her all that the man had done for her
and she said, “He gave me these six lots of grain
for he said, ‘Don’t come empty-handed to your mother-in-law.’”
And she said, “Wait my girl until you know how it falls out
for the man won’t rest without settling it all this very day.”

In this passage we have both an explicit and an implicit answer to our questions about Ruth. In her bold offer to accompany her aged mother-in-law back to her home and her people, Boaz sees something essential about her character. He perceives it as an act of pure kindness, an act from which Ruth has nothing to gain. Likewise, he perceives, she has nothing to gain from offering marriage to an older man rather than one nearer her age. Though she is a foreigner, the kindness she has shown to Naomi and the diligence of her work has made an impression, as he notes, not just on his own harvest boys but on all the people of the city.

Unlike Elimelekh, but like Abaraham the founder of Judaism, Ruth is a generous person who goes out of her way to find and perform acts of kindness for others. It was in response to Abraham’s generosity to guests that God both promised him a son and consulted him about destroying the wicked city of Sodom. Because she behaves like Abraham, Ruth is the prototypical convert: one who in Judaism is called a son or daughter of Abraham.

That is the explicit answer. The implicit answer lies in the curious transaction that takes place after Boaz both accepts and sets a condition on Ruth’s marriage offer. On the one hand, he insists on legality, saying he must first offer her to his cousin who is a more direct heir and therefore should be offered the chance to redeem her. But then he does a curious thing, asking her to hold out her kerchief and weighing out six measures of grain that he ties about her. And the next thing you know, when Ruth goes back to her mother- in-law, Naomi does not seem to recognize her. What does this mean?

In giving Ruth the grain, I suspect Boaz has made a type of kiddushin, a betrothal—something the Talmud tells us can be done with a ring, a coin, or a gift of specific value. And why does Naomi not recognize her? I think it is because Ruth is no longer the same person.

Evidently, when she married Naomi and Elimelekh’s son back in Moab, Ruth did not thereby become connected either to the Lord or to other Jews. Then, later, she voices her wish to join her mother-in-law’s people and swears by the Lord. Her conversion is indicated by the declaration and the oath; but only now, in Chapter 3, does the text acknowledge her personal transformation. The declaration lies far behind, and the wedding is still to come, but in some mysterious way Ruth becomes a different person when Boaz weighs out those grains and gives them to her. With this betrothal she has truly joined the Jewish people as a Jew betrothed to a Jew who is connected to other Jews. So deep is the change, her mother-in-law doesn’t recognize her for a moment. I can find no other explanation for Naomi’s question, “Who are you, my girl?”

 

And so we reach the end, with its momentary shock of suspense before the final resolution: 

And Boaz went up to the gate and sat there
and along came the redeemer Boaz spoke of, passing by.
And he said, “Turn aside and sit here, man who shall remain nameless,”
and he turned and he sat.
And he took ten men of the elders of the town
and said, “Sit here”—and they sat.
And he said to the redeemer, “The section of field
that was our brother Elimelekh’s
is for sale by Naomi who’s come back from the fields of Moab.
And I said I’d have a word in your ear
to say, ‘Buy it’ before those sitting here and before my elders.
If you will redeem, redeem
and if he who should redeem will not redeem
tell me so I know
for there is none but you in line to redeem
and I am after you.”
And he said, “I will redeem.”

And Boaz said, “The day you buy the field from Naomi
and Ruth the Moabite, the dead man’s wife,
you buy also to raise the dead man’s name on his estate.”
And the redeemer said, “I could not redeem for myself
lest I ruin my own estate.
You redeem for yourself what I would redeem, for I cannot myself redeem.”

And this was in the days of old in Israel
when to redeem and to exchange and seal a deal
a man would slip off his shoe
and give it to his fellow
and this was the contract in Israel.
And the redeemer said to Boaz, “Buy it yourself,”
and slipped off his shoe.
And Boaz said to the elders and all the people,
“You are witnesses today that I have bought
all that was Elimelekh’s and all that was Kilyon and Mahlon’s
from the hand of Naomi.
And also Ruth the Moabite, wife of Mahlon,
I’ve bought to be a wife for me
to raise the dead man’s name on his estate
so the dead man’s name shall not be lost among his kin
and from the gate of his town
you are witnesses today.”

And all the people at the gate and all the elders said,
“We are witnesses:
Let the Lord make the woman entering your house
like Rachel and like Leah who built the house of Israel
and do well in Efrata and make a name for yourself in Bethlehem
and may your house be like the house of Peretz whom Tamar bore for Judah
from the children the Lord gives you by this girl.”

And Boaz took Ruth and she was his wife
and he came to her and the Lord let her be with child
and she bore a son and the women said to Naomi,
“Blessed be the Lord who did not still your redeemer today
and may his name be renowned in Israel
and may he be a balm and succor for your old age.
For your daughter-in-law who loved you bore him,
who’s been better to you than seven sons.”
And Naomi took the child and put him in her lap and was his nursemaid.
And the neighbor women called him by name
saying, “A son was born for Naomi.”
And they named him Oved,
who is the father of Jesse
father of David.

When Abraham makes his contract with God in the book of Genesis, it is a contract to behave in a certain way. People who behave badly, for instance in Sodom and Gomorrah, bring down devastation upon themselves. Even Lot, who behaves decently but chooses to live in the wrong place, brings devastation on his family. In the book of Ruth we have a picture of Elimelekh who is selfish and chooses to live in the wrong place and brings devastation on his family.

Ruth, by a series of acts of kindness, restores the connection between Elimelekh’s family and the land of Israel, and indeed with Judaism. She helps Naomi return to the land, she gives her a child, and by her kindness builds the house of Israel, not coincidentally producing its greatest king: a king who survives everything because, whatever else he does, he loves the Lord and walks in his ways.

 

The question then arises: why is this particular book read aloud in the synagogue on Shavuot, the holiday that celebrates the giving of the Torah? After all, nowhere in the entire book of Ruth is there any mention of the Torah.

The story is read on Shavuot because receiving the Torah is not enough. Ruth’s accepting the Lord as her God and swearing by Him: that is a theoretical business. Only when she performs an act of kindness, the act to which Boaz responds with a betrothal, does the contract become binding. By not acting like a Jew, Elimelekh had severed himself and all of his family from Judaism. It takes Ruth to come along and right that wrong. In the divisive times of the Second Temple, Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel, a leader of the Jewish people—and one of Ruth’s direct descendants—would put it succinctly by saying that the world stands on three things: Torah, worship, and acts of kindness.

__________________

Atar Hadari, born in Israel and raised in England, is a poet and translator whose Rembrandt’s Bible, a collection of biblical monologues, was recently published in the UK by Indigo Dreams. His previous essays in Mosaic are “The Preacher’s Air” (on Ecclesiastes), “Esther in Des Moines” (on the book of Esther), and “The Love of Their Youth” (on the Song of Songs), all accompanied by original translations.

More about: Biblical commentary, Book of Ruth, Shavuot, Thomas Hardy, Translation

 

A Letter to My Liberal Jewish Friends

The president’s address last week to Congregation Adas Israel as “an honorary member of the tribe” was something other than it seemed.

A Letter to My Liberal Jewish Friends
President Obama speaks at Congregation Adas Israel in Washington, DC on May 22. Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images.
 
Observation
May 28 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Michael Doran, a senior fellow at the Hudson Institute, is a former deputy assistant secretary of defense and a former senior director of the National Security Council. He is finishing a book on President Eisenhower and the Middle East. He tweets @doranimated.


Dear Congregants of Adas Israel:

On Friday, May 22, President Obama, calling himself “an honorary member of the tribe,” addressed you not just as the president of the United States but also as an explicit adherent of the “tikkun olam” tradition: a Jewish viewpoint for “repairing the world” that, in his reading, promotes universal progressive ideals like fighting bigotry and working for social justice everywhere. Thus, for him, the same “shared values” that underlay the civil-rights movement in the United States were what led him to identify himself with the cause of Israel—and also with the cause of Palestinian nationalism.

Although, as you may have noticed, the president never mentioned Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu by name, the heart of his speech was devoted to justifying his own role in their by now famous conflict. At the heart of that conflict, he suggested, was Netanyahu’s presumed hostility to recognizing the rights of the Palestinians. Making references to Ramallah in one breath and Selma in the next, and sketching an ethical map that made the civil-rights movement and Palestinian nationalism interchangeable, the president implied that support for Netanyahu’s policies was tantamount to rejecting the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr.

It was Chemi Shalev, the U.S. editor of Haaretz, who best captured the essence of Obama’s May 22 message to you: “I represent your core values far better than the elected leader of Israel.”

To judge by the enthusiastic applause, many of you accepted the president’s sincerity and strongly agreed with his message. May I ask you, however, to pause and consider an alternative view? I cannot claim, as Obama did, membership in the tribe, but I can say that I am well informed both about the Middle East and about United States policy toward that region. In addition, I am deeply concerned about the deterioration in Israeli-American relations.

Here’s my question. As Obama donned his yarmulke and embraced your community, did you also catch the hint of a warning? If you did, it was because the president was raising, very subtly, the specter of dual loyalty: the hoary allegation that Jews pursue their tribal interests to the detriment of the wider community or nation. Obama was certainly not engaging in anything so crude as that; nor is he an enemy of the Jewish people. But he did imply that many Jews—that is, Jews who support Benjamin Netanyahu—have indeed placed their narrow, ethnic interests above their commitment to universal humanistic values. In his view, they have betrayed those values. And so the warning was faint, but unmistakable: if Jews wish to avoid being branded as bigots, then they—you—must line up with him against Netanyahu.

 

“But the president is right,” many of you would no doubt reply. “Netanyahu’s values are not my values.” That may well be the case. Yet this is also why it is a trap for you to accept Obama’s claim that his fight with Netanyahu is a struggle over “values.” The struggle is not over values. Rather, at the core of the Netanyahu-Obama grudge match is one issue and one issue only: the president’s long-sought détente with the Islamic Republic of Iran.

To be sure, there are other sources of tension between the two men, both personal and political. Among them is the Israel-Palestinian issue, which the president dwelt upon at length in his remarks to you—but in the service of a goal that has nothing whatsoever to do with Israeli-Palestinian relations. If this sounds too calculating by half, consider three key points.

First, every informed observer knows there is no chance of moving Israel-Palestinian relations forward in the next two years—and also that, what with the Arab and Muslim Middle East exploding in violence, Benjamin Netanyahu is hardly the only skeptic in Israel when it comes to advancing a two-state solution any time soon. Had Isaac Herzog, the leader of Israel’s main opposition party, won the election in March, the prospects of reaching such a compromise solution would have remained the same as under Netanyahu: that is, next to nil.

Let’s not forget that, back in April 2014, it wasn’t the Israeli government that put the final nail in the coffin of the American initiative to solve the Israel-Palestinian conflict. Netanyahu, for his part, grudgingly accepted the Americans’ draft framework agreement; Mahmoud Abbas refused. I have yet to hear the president excoriate Abbas for his betrayal of the values of progressive humanism.

Next, Obama has fallen out with or pulled away from almost every traditional American ally in the Middle East—a development that, even if it did not create the chaos now engulfing the region, has certainly played a major role in abetting it. The president’s relations with the leaders of Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Turkey are nearly as strained as his relations with Netanyahu. While these leaders may shrink from disagreeing with him in public, they have unmistakably signaled their conviction that the president’s deal with Tehran will not achieve its stated goal of stopping Iran’s progress toward a nuclear weapon and that, in his obsessive pursuit of this deal, American policy is actively helping to turn the aggressively hostile regime of the mullahs into the dominant power in the Middle East.

Which brings me to the third point. In the course of extolling the virtues of his emerging nuclear deal, the president paused to express his unyielding commitment to shielding Israel from the threat of Iranian expansionism. Or did he? Take a look at his exact words:

E]ven if we do get a good deal, there remains the broader issue of Iran’s support for terrorism and regional destabilization, and [its] ugly threats against Israel. And that’s why our strategic partnership with Israel will remain, no matter what happens in the days and years ahead. And that’s why the people of Israel must always know America has its back, and America will always have its back.

This gauzy rhetoric may sound reassuring but it is deliberately devoid of content—for good reason. The plain fact is that the United States is doing nothing to arrest the projection and expansion of Iranian power in the region; quite the contrary. In Lebanon, for example, Washington has cut funding for Shiite figures who remain independent of Iran’s proxy Hizballah. In Iraq, the United States, through the Iraqi armed forces, is actually coordinating with Iranian-backed militias and serving as their air force. Indeed, wherever one looks in the Middle East, one can observe an American bias in favor of, to say the least, non-confrontation with Iran and its allies.

The pattern is most glaring in Syria, where the president has repeatedly avoided conflict with Bashar al-Assad, Iran’s closest ally. The tendency surfaced again a few weeks ago in connection with mounting evidence that Assad has routinely attacked his own people with gas. If true, this fact should trigger a sharp American response in keeping with the president’s famous “red line” on the use of chemical weapons. But when questioned on this matter at a press conference, he contrived to find a loophole. Assad’s forces, he said, have been deploying chlorine gas, which “historically” has not been considered a chemical weapon.

The president’s sophistry demonstrates a simple but profound truth: his commitment to the progressive values of tikkun olam is governed by its own “red lines,” and is entirely utilitarian. Which again raises the question: what was his purpose in stressing this shared progressive commitment in his address to you, and what was his purpose in subtly reminding you of the costs of failing to abide by its terms?

The answer, I hope, is obvious. On June 30, Obama will likely conclude a nuclear deal with Iran. This will spark a faceoff with Congress, which has already declared its opposition to the deal. Congress will inevitably pass a vote of disapproval, which Obama will inevitably veto. In order to defend that veto from a congressional override, however, he must line up 34 Senators—all Democrats. This calls in turn for a preemptive ideological campaign to foster liberal solidarity—for which your support is key. If the president can convince the liberal Jewish community, on the basis of “shared values,” to shun any suspicion of alignment with congressional Republicans or Benjamin Netanyahu, he will have an easier time batting down Congress’s opposition to the deal with Iran.

Progressive values have nothing to do with what is truly at stake in this moment of decision. Only one final question really matters: in your considered view, should the Islamic Republic of Iran be the dominant power in the Middle East, and should we be helping it to become that power? If your answer is yes, then, by all means, continue to applaud the president—loudly and enthusiastically—as he purports to repair the world.

Your friend,
Michael Doran

More about: Barack Obama, Benjamin Netanyahu, Iran nuclear program, Israel & Zionism, Politics & Current Affairs

 

Why the King James Version of the Bible Remains the Best

The 400-year-old translation is denigrated because of its archaic language. That’s one of its greatest strengths.

Why the King James Version of the Bible Remains the Best
From the cover of a 1611 edition of the King James Version of the Bible.
 
Observation
May 27 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Philologos, the renowned Jewish-language columnist, appears twice a month in Mosaic. Questions for him may be sent to his email address by clicking here.


Got a question for Philologos? Ask him directly at [email protected].

Stephen M. Flatow asks why, in my column “The Paradox of the Transmission of Sacred Texts” that appeared two weeks ago, I used the King James translation when citing verses from the Bible. “Are there,” he asks, “no Jewish translations, such as the Jewish Publication Society’s, Soncino Press’s, or ArtScroll’s, that would have served a similar purpose?”

Yes, there are. The reason I nevertheless prefer the King James Version (KJV) is that, despite its age, its archaic English, and its often outdated interpretations of passages that subsequent knowledge has thrown new light on, it continues to be the best English Bible translation in existence.

This is, of course, a matter of taste and opinion, but the taste and opinion are not just mine. Millions of English-speaking Bible readers share them, which is why in 2013, the most recent year for which there are data, the 400-year-old KJV continued to outsell all of its numerous modern competitors but one. (That one is the New International Version of the Bible, first published in the course of the 1970s.) These millions of readers would agree with Adam Nicolson, who states in his God’s Secretaries: The Making of the King James Bible that, more than any other English translation of Scripture, the KJV is driven by an “idea of majesty” whose “qualities are those of grace, stateliness, scale, [and] power.” What its admirers sense in it above all, writes Nicolson, is what they sense in the Hebrew Bible itself: “a belief in the enormous and overwhelming divine authority” of the text.

I do not sense this, or feel the same “grace, stateliness, and power,” in other Bible translations, including the ones mentioned by Mr. Flatow. True, those translations were produced by Jewish scholars for a Jewish readership, whereas the King James’s translators were Christians with Christian concerns. Yet these concerns almost never led them to distort the meaning of the text for polemical or anti-Jewish purposes, and even in the handful of cases where it might be argued that they did so, it is possible to defend their choices. Thus, for example, in the famously disputed verse from Isaiah, “Behold, a young woman [alma] shall conceive and bear a son and call him Emmanuel,” the King James adheres to Christian tradition by translating alma as “virgin,” turning the verse into a prophecy of Jesus’ birth. Yet given that in biblical times no respectable unmarried young woman—which is apparently what alma denotes—could have been anything but a virgin, this is not a totally outrageous reading.

Let’s look at the two verses I cited in the column Mr. Flatow refers to. In the original Hebrew they are: Adonai b’ozkha yismakh melekh; uv’yeshu’atkha ma-yagil me’od. Ta’avat libo natata lo; va’areshet s’fatav bal-mana’ta (Psalms 21:2-3). The King James has: “The king shall joy in Thy strength, O Lord; and in Thy salvation how greatly shall he rejoice! Thou hast given him his heart’s desire, and hast not withholden the request of his lips.” In the 1917 Jewish Publication Society translation, this is: “O Lord, in Thy strength the king rejoiceth; and in Thy salvation how greatly doth he exult. Thou hast given him his heart’s desire; and the request of his lips Thou hast not withholden.” The Soncino Press version uses the 1917 JPS text. The new 1985 JPS translation gives us: “O Lord, the king rejoices in Your strength; how greatly he exults in Your victory. You have granted him the desire of his heart, have not denied the request of his lips.” The 1996 ArtScroll has: “O Lord, may the king rejoice with Your strength, and how greatly does He exult with your salvation. You gave him his heart’s desire, and the speech of his lips you have never withheld.”

All four of these versions are highly similar. A cursory look at them demonstrates that the last three were influenced by the King James. Indeed, the 1917 JPS translation basically is the King James, with minor variations. Why not, then, go with the original?

The 1985 JPS version departs from the King James more—but not, I would say, for the better. “Your victory” is a less accurate and more confusing rendering of yeshu’atkha than “Your salvation”—God’s victory over what or whom?—and the dropping of the Hebrew connective v’, “and” or “but,” which regularly joins the two hemistiches of each line of Hebrew verse, sanitizes an important feature of biblical style in favor of more conventional English usage. The ArtScroll version is no improvement. To say that God has withheld not the “request” (areshet) of the king’s lips but their “speech” means that He has let the king speak freely, not, as the Hebrew states, that He has granted him his wishes. And since when does one rejoice or exult “with” something in English? One can rejoice with someone, but one rejoices in something.

These are minor points, I admit, but they are indicative of the KJV’s overall superiority, which derives in part from its being the product of a historical period in which the Bible’s divinely revealed character and literal truth, every word of which was assumed to matter supremely because it was God’s, were still taken for granted by most people, including the King James’s highly cultivated and sophisticated translators.

Indeed, the KJV’s archaic language, often cited as a point against it, strikes me as one more argument in its behalf. The language of the Hebrew Bible, after all, is archaic, too; it is precisely this that makes us feel when reading it that we are in contact with an age more wondrous and fervent than our own. The same holds true of the KJV. We should not want the Bible to sound modern. Of modernity we have more than enough; the Bible needs to be read against modernity’s grain. I’ll stick with the King James.

Got a question for Philologos? Ask him directly at [email protected].

More about: Bible, History & Ideas, Religion & Holidays, Translation

 

Did It Really Happen, or Was It a Dream?

God ordered the prophet Hosea to marry a whore and father her children. The rabbis can’t decide if the story actually happened or was purely symbolic.

Did It Really Happen, or Was It a Dream?
From The Prophet Hosea by Duccio di Buoninsegna, 1311. Wikipedia.
 
Atar Hadari
Observation
May 22 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Atar Hadari, born in Israel and raised in England, is a poet and translator whose Rembrandt’s Bible, a collection of biblical monologues, was recently published in the UK by Indigo Dreams. He writes regularly for Mosaic.


The haftarah accompanying this week’s reading of Bemidbar is taken from the prophet Hosea (2:1-22). That book is unusual in that rabbinic opinion is split down the middle on whether the events described in it—starting with God’s ordering the prophet to marry a whore and father children by her—happened in real life or are entirely symbolic depictions of the Lord’s relations with the people Israel. In the tractate Pesaḥim, the hardened realists of the Talmud imagine the encounter between the Almighty and Hosea went like this:

The Master of the Universe said: what shall I do to this old man? I’ll tell him “Go take to wife a whore and bear whoresons by her,” and after that I’ll tell him, “send her away from before you!” If he’s capable of sending her away, then I too shall send away Israel. . . . [Hosea] said: “Master of the Universe, I’ve children by her and cannot put her out or drive her away.” The Holy One said, “And what are you whose wife is a whore and whose children are whoresons, and you do not know if they’re yours or others’? Just so are Israel, who are my children, children of those I’ve tested . . . and you tell me to transfer them to another nation?!” Since [Hosea] knew he’d sinned, he rose to plead mercy for himself. The Holy One told him: “Since you’re pleading mercy for yourself, plead mercy for Israel, against whom I’ve decreed three decrees for your sake.” He rose to plead mercy for them, cancelled the decree, and started blessing them.

As far back as the Aramaic translation of Hosea (ca. 2nd century CE), however, there were doubts the book meant what it said. In the Middle Ages, Abraham ibn Ezra thought it was all a dream, and even Maimonides presumed the same. Not so Isaac Abrabanel (1437–1508), whose impatience with this approach scorches the page:

It’s truly lewdness and criminal to deny the simple meaning of the writings, . . . and these commentators have no argument when they say the Holy One was mocking the dignity of the prophet in commanding him to take a whore wife and bear whoresons. For plainly the prophets were not chosen by the Lord for their own sake . . . but were messengers of the deity to straighten out His people, and therefore He commanded them to do whatever was necessary to correct the people.

You can take it as you please, then, but you have to ask yourself one question: if Hosea was only dreaming that he’d married that woman and fathered those children, why shouldn’t he be able to drive her out in the same dream? But the relationship of the Lord with the children of Israel is not a dream; He really was stuck with those children who were worshipping idols. If the prophet was to be an instrument for voicing His pain, as Abrabanel has it, why balk at inflicting the same pain on him?

Tell your brother Ami and your sister Ruhama,
Fight, fight against your mother
For she is not My wife and I am not her husband
And she should remove her harlotry from her face
And wantonness from between her breasts
Or I’ll strip her naked and show her like the day she was born
And make her like a desert, make her like a barren land and let her die of thirst.
And for her children I’ll have no mercy for they’re the children of whoring.
For their mother strayed, she that bore them shamed them

In this haftarah, which consists of most of the second chapter of Hosea, you don’t actually get the scene of the Lord instructing Hosea to take this wife, or read about the birth and naming of the children. In Hosea 2, which is read once a year in the synagogue, the wife and the nation of Israel are virtually indistinguishable, and the Lord’s threat to strip the nation like a divorced adulterous wife is clearly symbolic. So again you might ask: is the prophet, Hosea, hallucinating, or is his pain real? No matter your answer, what definitely feels real is the Lord’s pain as he moves now into a very detailed ceremony of divorce, including the redistribution of marital assets, only to follow with a very moving remarriage ceremony that recaptures the love of youth and a reaffirmation of the wedding vows:

For she said I’ll follow my suitors
Who give me my bread and water, my wool and linen, my oil and liquor.
Therefore I’ll bar her way with briars
And fence her in and her byways she won’t find.
And she’ll chase after her suitors and not catch them
And seek them but not find.
So she’ll say: I’ll go and return to my first man
For I had it better then than I do now.
But she didn’t know it was I who gave her
Grain and grape and oil
And the silver I multiplied for her
And the gold she made into a husband.

The crux of this prophecy and its metaphors can be discerned in that last word, “husband.” The Hebrew, baal, can be read as the name of the idol that many Israelites were worshipping but also as husband or owner. Who is it these people belong to, anyway? And to whom does the wife look to for support and sustenance and love?

Therefore I’ll once more take my grain in its season
And my grape when it’s due
And I’ll salvage my wool and linen
That would cover her from being nude.
But now I’ll reveal her wickedness to her suitors’ eyes
And no man shall deliver her from my hand.
And I’ll still all of her holidays,
Festivals of new month and Sabbath, and all her sacred times
And I will desolate her vine and fig
That she said, They’re my reward that my suitors gave me.
I’ll make them over into a wood to be eaten by wild beasts
And I’ll remember her for the festivals of idols
When she burned incense
And put on her nose ring and bangle
And went after her suitors
And Me she entirely forgot, so says the Lord.

The strongest argument against a metaphorical reading of this book as merely a dream is the picture that will now be given of the Lord as He pursues his wayward wife into the desert. I don’t think most people, even prophets, pursue ideas into the desert. Even Moses had to be driven out of Egypt as a criminal and then find employment as a shepherd before he wound up in the wilderness for the Lord to find him. People just don’t hang out there for fun.

Therefore I’ll coax her
And lead her through the desert
And speak to her heart and give her her vineyards there
And the valley of Akhor as an opening to hope
And she’ll respond to Me there as in her days of youth
And like the day she came up out of the land of Egypt
And it’ll be on that day, says the Lord,
You’ll call Me your Man and no longer call Me husband
And I’ll remove the names of the idols from your mouth
And they’ll not be remembered by name on any account
And I’ll cut them a covenant upon that day
With the wild beast and birds of the sky and crawlers of the earth
And I’ll break the arrow and sword and war from the land
And I will lay them down secure
And betroth you to Me for all time
And betroth you to Me in justice and judgment
And in kindness and mercy
And I’ll betroth you to Me in faith
And you shall know the Lord.

How can you love an idea? The Lord told Hosea to take a wife who would be as troublesome to him and whose children would break his heart as much as the children of Israel have broken God’s heart. But the Lord is married to Israel, and what’s more He wants to remain married. So He tries again and wants Hosea to try again, and the children of Israel do “know the Lord”—because this is a marriage. They try again, they fail again, but eventually they listen in the desert. When He calls them, they hear the voice of true love—not an idea, and not a dream—and they come back.

More about: Bemidbar, Hebrew Bible, Religion & Holidays, Talmud, The Monthly Portion

 

Unknown Musicians of a Wandering Race

A remarkable concert reintroduces three Jewish composers who fled fascist Europe to America, where two of them pioneered a new art form—the symphonic film score.

Unknown Musicians of a Wandering Race
The ARC Ensemble, who performed in Pro Musica Hebraica's "Before The Night: Jewish Classical Masterpieces of Pre-1933 Europe" at the Kennedy Center in May 2015. The ARC Ensemble via Facebook.
 
Observation
May 21 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Edward Rothstein, critic at large for the Wall Street Journal, was chief music critic for the New York Times from 1991 to 1995. Follow him on Twitter @EdRothstein.


In his program notes to the Pro Musica Hebraica concert at the Kennedy Center in Washington earlier this month, the historian James Loeffler points out that in 1927—just before the period in which the music on the program was written—a Russian-born musician by the name of Gdal Saleski published a “classic, biographical lexicon” under the title Famous Musicians of a Wandering Race.

At the time, this well-worn description of the Jews as a “wandering race” could still be invoked with pride, or innocence. Not for long, however. Loeffler observes that the post-Holocaust edition of the book would refer instead to composers of “Jewish origin,” and by then the book was more of a memorial volume. Still, that earlier phrase remains strangely resonant, evoking bards doomed to migratory journeys, singing of epic pasts, embodying the age-old fate of the disenfranchised Wandering Jew of Western mythology. And there was a certain element of truth in all of that—as the evening’s program bore out.

The concert, titled “Before the Night: Jewish Classical Masterpieces of Pre-1933 Europe,” offered music written between 1928 and 1931 by three composers of the “wandering race”: Jerzy Fitelberg (1903-1951), Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco (1895-1968), and Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897-1957). But the pieces themselves, beautifully played by the Canadian-based ARC Ensemble, make no allusions to the Jewish origins of the composers; nor do they hint at how Saletski’s phrase fits these figures, all three of whom, in fleeing the Nazis, took a path that ultimately led from their respective nations of birth—Poland, Italy, and Austria—to the United States.

So, aside from their creators’ shared background, in what way were these works “Jewish”? That is a question, indeed, that one might ask of almost any of the offerings of Pro Musica Hebraica (PMH), whose concert series is now in its eighth season. The aim of PMH, a marvelous brainchild of Charles and Robyn Krauthammer, is to draw attention to “lost and neglected masterpieces of Jewish classical music.” (Selections from earlier concerts can be heard here.) Is, then, the main mark of identification simply the fact that most of the composers happen to have been Jews?

At least in the case of this particular concert, it might seem so. In the pieces performed at the Kennedy Center there was nothing like the melody of the Kol Nidrei prayer used by Max Bruch in his 1881 piece of that name for cello and orchestra (even though Bruch himself was, he said, not Jewish). Nor were there Jewish folk melodies of the kind to be found in works by Charles-Valentin Alkan or Maurice Ravel (two composers represented in earlier PMH concerts, the first of whom was Jewish and the second is sometimes alleged to have been), or narrative motifs and coded references of the kind that can be heard in some works by Dmitri Shostakovich (who, though not Jewish, made use of Hebraic melodies).

Nor were we, in listening to the music, meant to place it within the tragic context of 20th-century European Jewish history. We were advised both by Loeffler in his concert notes and by Charles Krauthammer in an onstage introduction that it should not be heard as if foreshadowing the cataclysm to come. Rather, we were to regard our experience of it as an adventure into a less familiar or “neglected” corner of musical modernism.

And this is indeed how it must be heard. At first.

 

The surprise of the evening was the String Quartet No. 2 (1928) by Jerzy Fitelberg, a work that in its skittish, aggressive dissonances, its edgy sweeps and mordant gestures, seems to give Slavic modernism a sensuous surface, as if merging the crispness of Sergei Prokofiev and the outbursts of Shostakovich with a love of sheer sonority. Fitelberg, the son of an influential Polish composer and conductor, graduated from the Warsaw Conservatory and then moved to Berlin. When the Nazis came to power in 1933 he fled to Paris, from there made his way to Italy, and finally left by ship for the United States where he settled on New York City’s Upper West Side.

In 1936, Fitelberg received an award from the Library of Congress, and enjoyed an international reputation. But today his name is hardly recognized, and he has no entry in the 29 volumes of the last printed edition (2001) of the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. The score for this quartet was found in his papers at the New York Public Library; performed by the ARC Ensemble, it will be featured in a forthcoming CD devoted to his work.

The second item on the Kennedy Center program, the Piano Quintet No. 1 (1931-32) by Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, made a less indelible impression, though its sweet lyricism and robust nostalgia were marked by exuberant stagecraft. In his autobiography, the composer claimed this as his best chamber work: emotional, vivacious, meditative.

Born into a Florentine Jewish banking family that traced its roots back to 16th-century Tuscany, Castelnuovo-Tedesco was drawn to the great texts of world literature as subjects for his music; he often used Jewish themes as well. In the early 1930s, he became concerned about the fate of Italian Jewry. When the virtuoso Jascha Heifetz commissioned him to write a violin concerto, he seized the occasion to express his pride in his “so unjustly persecuted” people. The concerto, called I profeti—“The Prophets”—glorifies, in the composer’s words, “the burning inspiration that inflamed the [biblical] envoys of God.” Within a few years, his career in Italy had come to an end. After the passage of Mussolini’s racial laws, his music was banned. He and his family made their way to Los Angeles.

And then there was Erich Korngold. Compared with his demonstrative theatricality, Castelnuovo-Tedesco pales. At the Kennedy Center concert, Korngold was represented by his Suite for 2 Violins, Cello, and Piano (Left Hand), Op. 23 (1930). It is, in some ways, extraordinary, forcibly demanding attention from the very start, freely discarding convention, experimenting playfully with form and manners. The suite opens with a declamatory, impassioned solo for piano, followed by an almost provocative response from the cello, eventually leading to a nervous fragmented fugue.

Not all of the work is as compelling as this first movement, but Korngold, who was certainly one of the century’s great musical prodigies, was hailed by Gustav Mahler (who called him a “genius”) and Richard Strauss (“one’s first reaction is awe”). His father, Julius Korngold, an immensely powerful music critic for Vienna’s Neue Freie Presse, championed his son’s music, but the help was hardly needed, so extensive was the acclaim. The pianist Paul Wittgenstein (brother to the philosopher Ludwig), who had lost his right arm in World War II, commissioned Korngold to write a piano concerto for left hand and, later, this suite. Ultimately, like Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Korngold, too, made his way to Los Angeles.

 

So here we have three finely crafted and intriguing works, each showing the influence of a different national style (Polish, Italian, Austrian) and each displaying unusual mastery. It is tempting to hear all of them as reflections of European Jewry’s last stand “before the night”—as music anticipating or heralding the darkness soon to fall. But, as I noted earlier, Loeffler suggests that this is fallacious, if not injurious. All three composers, he writes, have been faulted by critics who find their work lacking in the requisite “pathos and foreboding they imagine music by interwar Jewish composers must possess.” That is why he urges us to approach their music not “as a prelude to war and genocide” but rather “as an expression of a restless moment when Western music was still engaged” in modernist struggles—that is, to hear it “on its own terms, without the aural backshadows” of the Holocaust.

But I don’t really see those backshadows as the main issue here. Nor does the perception of backshadows, where relevant, strike me as different from the general effort to place any work of art within its historical context, to think about what led up to it and in what ways it may have anticipated or prefigured or perhaps even helped to bring into being what would come after. We who arrive on the scene later cannot get away from the knowledge of our situation; we cannot listen with the ears of a composer’s contemporaries. We may even hear more subtle prefiguring than they could have imagined.

Besides, there is more than one way that music relates to its encompassing history. Who, for example, can listen to Kurt Weill’s Threepenny Opera and fail to notice the overripe German cynicism that held the cultural seeds of so much that was to come? Even at the time, this was evident to some listeners. Attending a performance of The Threepenny Opera in the early 1930s, the great scholar Gershom Scholem was dismayed to find himself in an audience “that had lost all sense of its own situation,” cheering a work “in which it [itself] was jibed and spat at with a vengeance.” By the same token, there are also works about which it can be distracting, and detracting, to historicize. We don’t listen to Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring and visualize the stark wartime landscape of 1944, the year of its premiere. We don’t want to. And perhaps that is the point: neither did Copland want to, or want us to. That is one way we hear this piece in context.

As for our three composers, I don’t think they faded from view because of obtuse critical expectations. The reasons were simpler, and Loeffler makes them evident: their lives were interrupted—largely as a result of their being Jews. In that sense, they are properly thought of as Jewish composers of their time. Nor was their displacement only a biographical phenomenon. It was a cultural phenomenon, with an immense impact on the course of all of European musical life.

In Forbidden Music: the Jewish Composers Banned by the Nazis, Michael Haas points out that by the first decade of the 20th century, about a third of the piano and violin students at Vienna’s conservatory were Jews. The prevalence of Jews in all aspects of European music was startling, and already then of long standing. By 1940, when the Nazi Lexikon der Juden in der Musik (“Dictionary of Jews in Music”) appeared, there was no shortage of examples, each name carefully labeled with its proportion of Jewish “blood.”

Think, then, of what happened to the musical life of Europe. The 1920s had been a decade of great cosmopolitan ferment. Within five years or so after 1933, it was all over, demolished. The musicians left behind were certainly consequential; they included Hebert von Karajan, Kurt Fürtwangler, Karl Böhm, Walter Gieseking, Elisabeth Schwartzkopf, Irmgard Seefried, and more. And there were composers, too, like Carl Orff—who wrote fresh incidental music to A Midsummer Night’s Dream so that Germans need no longer be subjected to the music of the Jew Felix Mendelssohn. But an entire stratum of musical life had been stripped away.

The effect this had, not just on Europe but also on the countries lucky enough to take in those lucky enough to escape, has yet to be fully appreciated. Most of the exiles seem to have ended up in the United States, and many in California: not just Castelnuovo-Tedesco and Korngold but Arnold Schoenberg, (the non-Jewish) Igor Stravinsky, and others. In many ways, the prime decades of American art-music can be traced to this influx of émigré musicians. In particular, the great American orchestras were transformed by exiled Jewish conductors, among them Otto Klemperer, Eugene Ormandy, Erich Leinsdorf, George Szell, Bruno Walter, William Steinberg, Serge Koussevitzky (who arrived pre-war), and Georg Solti (who came postwar).

Still another transformation in American culture owes much to the influence of two of the composers featured at the Kennedy Center concert. Moving to Los Angeles in 1940, Castelnuovo-Tedesco began writing film music for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and other major studios, scoring more than 130 (!) movies in all. Along the way, he taught a new generation of composers, many of whom, including Jerry Goldsmith, Henry Mancini and John Williams, also wrote for films.

Korngold is an even more remarkable example. While still living in Austria, he had visited Hollywood in 1934 in order to collaborate with the director Max Reinhardt on the film of A Midsummer Night’s Dream; just as the Nazis were undertaking to replace Jewish music, Korngold created a score woven out of Mendelssohn. He went back to Austria, but returned here in 1938 when Warner Brothers asked him to write music for The Adventures of Robin Hood. The Nazi Anschluss in that year made it necessary for him to remain in the U.S., where he proceeded to write the music for, among others, Captain Blood, The Prince and the Pauper, Anthony Adverse, and The Sea Hawk, and thereby, as the New Grove Dictionary puts it, “pioneered a new art form, the symphonic film score.”

Until recent decades, when the model shifted, American movie scores, thanks to Hitler, were orchestral tone-poems, operas without voice, shaping our understanding of what is seen. Which is one reason why, to return to the fascinating concert at the Kennedy Center, I don’t mind backshadowing. Actually, however, it wasn’t the Holocaust that I heard latent and prefigured in the music that night; it was the nascent flowering of an American art form and the incomparable enrichment of American entertainment, an enrichment that lasted for three or four decades—at least until it started to turn into something else.

More about: Arts & Culture, Classical music, Film, History & Ideas, Jewish music