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

 

An Unknown Yiddish Masterpiece That Anticipated the Holocaust

Written in 1923, “In the Crucifix Kingdom” depicts Europe as a Jewish wasteland. Why has no one read it?

An Unknown Yiddish Masterpiece That Anticipated the Holocaust
From a portrait of Uri Zvi Greenberg by the Israeli painter Ziona Tager. Wikipedia.
 
Observation
April 15 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Michael Weingrad is professor of Jewish studies at Portland State University, and the editor and translator of Letters to America: Selected Poems of Reuven Ben-Yosef (forthcoming from Syracuse University Press). He is a frequent contributor to Mosaic and the Jewish Review of Books, and he also writes at the website Investigations and Fantasies.

 


In a dark Yiddish masterpiece that predated the Holocaust by two decades, the poet Uri Zvi Greenberg envisioned the annihilation of Jewish life in Europe. Today, seven decades after that vision became cataclysmic reality, as Jews this week observe the annual commemoration of the Holocaust on Yom Hashoah, and as the Jewish horizon in Europe darkens once again, his work speaks with fresh immediacy.

Greenberg (1896-1981) was not only one of Yiddish literature’s foremost modernists but arguably the greatest Hebrew poet of the last hundred years. If his name is unfamiliar today, that is because he inhabits a strange kind of cultural quarantine. Literary critics in Israel acknowledge his titanic stature, yet in a country that pays high honor to its writers, he has never been part of Israel’s school curriculum, and you won’t find him among the quartet of 20th-century Hebrew poets whose faces were recently added to Israeli banknotes. Nor is much of his work—including In malkhes fun tseylem (“In the Crucifix Kingdom”), which I offer here for the first time in English translation—available in English.

Raised in a Ḥasidic household in the city of Lvov, Greenberg began publishing poems in both Hebrew and Yiddish when he was sixteen. He experienced the horrors of World War I as a soldier impressed into the Austrian army, one of the few in his platoon to survive the bloody assault on Belgrade. After his return from the Serbian front to the devastated Jewish community of Galicia, he and his family were nearly murdered during one of the many postwar pogroms carried out by Russians, Poles, and Ukrainians. By the early 1920s, having moved to Warsaw and then Berlin, Greenberg concluded that both European civilization and the Jews’ place in it were on the verge of collapse, and that drastic steps needed to be taken.

At the end of 1923, putting Yiddish aside in favor of Hebrew, the poet emigrated to Palestine, where at first he placed his pen at the service of the Zionist left. By the late 20s, however, increasingly disillusioned with leftist ideology, he found a new home in Revisionism, the right-wing Zionist movement led by his fellow writer-activist, Ze’ev Jabotinsky. For this apostasy, Greenberg was reviled by the left-dominated cultural establishment of Jewish Palestine and effectively hounded out of the country.

Back in Poland for most of the 1930s, renewing his literary activity in Yiddish, Greenberg urgently advocated Jewish emigration from Europe. His critique of the Zionist leadership in Palestine, which he viewed as both derelict in protecting Jewish life against rising Arab violence and perverse in its support for worldwide socialist revolution, found expression in an extraordinary collection of Hebrew poems, Sefer hakitrug veha’emunah (“The Book of Accusation and Faith,” 1937). Brilliant though they were, these caustic political poems sealed his fate as a cultural outlier from then onward.

It was Greenberg’s Holocaust poetry that gained him partial readmission to the Israeli canon. At the outbreak of World War II, having been warned that as a Zionist activist he was in mortal danger, Greenberg fled back to Palestine; his parents and sisters, who remained behind, were murdered in the Holocaust. After the war, he gave expression to his guilt, his rage, and his agonized love for the victims in a body of poetry collected in the 1951 volume Reḥovot hanahar (“Streets of the River”). While these poems, too, have had their political detractors, they were received by Israeli readers as indispensable literary testimony to the impact of the Shoah, and within that context it became, and has remained, “legitimate” to appreciate Greenberg’s work.

 

That is certainly the case with “In the Crucifix Kingdom.” Written in Yiddish in 1923 just before Greenberg’s first emigration to Palestine, the poem is a nightmarish depiction of Europe as a land of Jewish agony and death. Corpses hang from the continent’s trees, its rivers disgorge the naked bodies of murdered women, its soil is toxic with Jewish blood. Europe, in the poet’s description, is a land that produces not trees but “grieftrees” (veybeymer), not towns but “grieftowns” (veyshtet). The poet imagines his mother beheaded by a mob, his father freezing to death while waiting in vain for messianic deliverance.

The poem’s indictment of Christian Europe is searing and relentless. The impossible situation of the Jews in Europe, symbolized by the maddening and ever-present sound of pealing church bells, is to have been trapped within their role as the mythical Wandering Jew in a 2,000-year-long passion play. “Through the streets they bear with joy the man from Galilee,” writes Greenberg, “Yet I am of those other creatures, those blood-sucking Jews / In tattered prayer-shawls and straps around their arms.” Like other Jewish works of art from the first half of the 20th century—Marc Chagall’s crucifixions being the most iconic—the poem appropriates Jesus and Mary in order to decry the glaring illogic of a Christian culture that worships Jews while engaging in violence against them.

But, for Greenberg, no more reliable guarantor of Jewish safety is to be found in Enlightenment liberalism: another European artifact with Jewish roots. “And now we descend,” the poet writes acidly, “we come down from the ladder /We [ourselves] fashioned and raised: the spirit of Europe. / A love, universal, even for Jew-haters.” And while the poem ends with a hopeful vision of return to the ancestral Jewish homeland, with the speaker ready to exchange his European garb for an “Arab abaya” and Jewish tallis, it also expresses deep apprehension regarding Arab hostility and the crescent of Islam that “falls / Like a scythe upon my neck.” If Europe is a ghastly dead end for Jews, their future in the Middle East, scene of the murderous Arab riots of 1921, looms uncertain as well.

 

Resonant with other contemporary works in its expressionism and its apocalyptic tenor, “In the Crucifix Kingdom” is one of the great achievements of 20th-century Yiddish literature and of interwar modernism in any language. The English-language reader will at points recall T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” written at nearly the same time, with its “empty cisterns and exhausted wells.” (“For so long there has been no water in the wells,” writes Greenberg, “only curses.”) In my translation, I have tried to reflect the poem’s visionary intensity, its rhythmic force, as well as its unnerving emotional register, a hunted stoicism intertwined at times with the blackest of black humor.

The poem is often described as prophetic of the Holocaust. Even were it not for Greenberg’s later redefinition as a Holocaust poet, one can understand the tendency to view it this way, what with its imagery of genocide and poison gas. (The connection is reinforced in, for instance, the video accompanying this performance of Daniel Galay’s art-song setting of parts of the poem, sung by the talented Noa Bizansky.) Yet as in the case of the biblical prophets whose mantle Greenberg saw himself as inheriting, the poem is less a forecast of the future than a nakedly honest portrayal of the present. Greenberg’s poem does not warn that a catastrophe will happen, but that it is happening now. The poem demands a response adequate to the present reality, hard as it may be to face.

If the poem speaks to our own moment, then, it is not only for its seeming prescience regarding the Holocaust but rather as a call to meet the threats arrayed against the Jewish people today. Of course, with the dramatic reshaping of Jewish-Christian relations epitomized in Vatican II and its many positive aftereffects, and with the rise in America of warm evangelical concern for Israel, it is no longer church bells that signal slaughter. Nevertheless, in Europe the streets again turn red with Jewish blood.

Notes on the Translation: In order to maintain the poem’s incantatory feel, I have tried, with a few exceptions, to follow its alternations between iambic sections and galloping dactylic ones. As for my decision to render the “tseylem” of the title as “crucifix” rather than the more conventional “cross,” the Hebrew source of the Yiddish word—tselem means image and can also designate an idolatrous image-making—allows this license, and certainly the poem describes Jewish existence in Europe as an ongoing crucifixion. Finally, in my work I have benefited from Benjamin Harshav’s translation of the poem into Hebrew, and from a typically brilliant monograph on the poet by the critic Dan Miron (an English version appears in his The Prophetic Mode in Modern Hebrew Literature).

* * *

In the Crucifix Kingdom
by Uri Zvi Greenberg
Translated from Yiddish by Michael Weingrad

A forest dense and black has grown upon the plains,
And vales of fear and pain deepen in Europe!
The tree-tops writhe in pain, in wild darkness, wild darkness,
And corpses from the branches hang, their wounds still dripping blood.
(These heavenly dead all have silver faces,
The moons anoint their brains with golden oil—)
And every cry of pain sounds like a stone in water,
While the prayers of the dead cascade like tears into the deep.

I am the owl, the keening bird of Europe’s griefwood.
In vales of pain and fear, blind at midnight under crosses.
I bear a brother’s plea to the Arab people in Asia:
Come guide us, wretched as we are, to the desert!
Terror overtakes my lambs when the half-moon falls
Like a scythe upon my neck—
My world-split heart wails in fear in Europe,
The lamb lies down with outstretched neck in the griefwood—
Wounded, world-split, I spit blood on the crosses in Europe.
(Tremble, you young and old, with heads of water in the griefwood!)

For two millennia a silence has burned beneath these trees,
A poison that collects in the abyss and festers—and I do not know
What all this means: two-thousand years of blood, of silence,
Yet not one mouth has cleared the poison spittle from its palate.
Each death at the hands of the goyim is chronicled in books,
Only the answer is missing, our answer to these deaths.

The griefwood grows so huge, and the tree-tops writhe in pain,
In wild darkness; such fear when the moon comes to look
And every cry of pain sounds like a stone in water
And the dripping blood of corpses is like dew within the sea—

Mighty Europe! Crucifix Kingdom!

I will celebrate a sabbath on a Sunday in your honor.
I will open up the griefwood and show you all the trees
Upon which hang the rotting bodies of my dead.
Enjoy, Crucifix Kingdom!
Come and gaze upon my valleys:
My wells lie empty in the waste with shepherds all around.
Dead shepherds with the lambs’ white heads upon their laps.

For so long there has been no water in the wells. Only curses.

*

You will not let us reach the sun. You murder those who try,
While the golden dream still rests upon their eyelashes.
Before the prayer for sunrise sinks into the void.

Hundreds of thousands of them run back to the griefwood
And from the eyes of sheep November peers
An evanescent gleam.

And there among the grieftrees children are born
Severity already in their blood: they wither
Even before the roses.

I will not plant the trees that bear you fruit,
Only my grieftrees are all set stripped and naked
Near you at the cross’s crown.

From dawn to dusk the bells swing back and forth
Upon your towers.
They drive me mad and tear into my aching flesh
Like mouths of beasts.

I hang my naked dead upon the branches,
I leave them there to rot, abandoned to all the constellations
That course through heaven—

In these nights of mine I fall into a dark well.
Jews that hang on crosses come to me in dreams.
I see their wild heads protruding from the windows
Of their houses
And they grumble in their wounded Hebrew:
Where is Pilate?

You cannot even see the threat that crouches by your heads.
A black prophecy pours poison in your sleep—you do not know;
Cathedral bells have robbed you of your ability to tell
When it begins.

Yet I speak to you a prophecy, the Black Prophecy:
From our valleys a pillar of cloud will rise
From our dark breath and bitter cries of pain!

Yet you will not perceive the horror in your bodies
The chatter will continue from your burning palates:
Jews! Jews!
As poison gas begins to seep into the palaces
And suddenly the icons scream in Yiddish.

*

No one is left standing. Shepherds lie stiff by trees
And rainbow colors glaze their eyes.

The stables burn. The sheep bleat madly. It blazes higher.
From all sides people carry wood to the pyre.
A little silver cross craves: Fire! Fire!

Submissively the flock comes to the field to die!
Bigger and bigger the whites of their eyes—like moons:

The grass is poisoned, in the water of the well—the plague!

Once again it is the morning after bonfire night,
Once again a tranquil night—

(A living shepherd, I flash a mephistophelean smile…)
The fearful houses stand with outlaw eyes,
With gaping wounds in all the grieftowns of the cross—

A last sheep left alive, from whom will you beseech mercy,
When your sheepfolds stand on Pilate’s land of pain,
Your pastures (bread and water) atop some smoking Etna!

*

On a wounded body a shredded tallis—the body
Is good in a Jewish tallis—so good in a tallis:
It keeps the wind from blowing sand into the gaping wounds.

A church-bell rings, the young and old grow feverish—
Cool your fever, Jews! I stand watch over the cemetery
With its open graves.
I bear the Jewish mark, a red gash upon my brow.

Ah, I am a king in a tallis of wounds and blood!
I will slaughter Shekhem and burn it down for the blood they spilled
On muddy streets,
On cobblestones,
In stables,
On the steps of churches.

Why else do they have pointed noses and grass-green eyes?
Why else do I have teeth in my mouth and a pair of knobby fists?

A ruddy hue spreads across the city walls—father,
What is it that you want to find with your silence?
It’s time to say the daily prayers.
The stars are coming out already . . . father,
Have you forgotten,
God is a watchman who keeps your flesh from shivering?!
Oh, it’s time for minḥah . . . the skies are all aflame . . . ah, father, ask for mercy!
The skies need mercy, too . . . even the skies above!
You think they don’t feel pain just as we do,
In the flesh of our bodies?

Are you dead? —I will say a name and they will sink,
The towers of the churches where they peal,
The crazy bells, and make you shake so much.
They will endure in memory alone (a story to be told)
The crosses on the steely roofs, and on the graves—
And from each graveyard, oh, by the thousands,
The Jewish soldiers will go forth with weapons
And shout a challenge to the four corners of the earth.

Does a golden circle not ascend at dawn?
Does a ruddy hue not spread across the city houses?

*

A frozen body in the setting sun—a Jew in Europe.
A house in grieftown. A city of nothing but bells and crosses,
Bells and crosses.

The embroidered curtain is gone. The door hangs off the ark:
A broken wing on a decent bird.

The head of the bird lies bloody in the ash-pot.

A penny candle glimmers red in the blackness of the ark,
In someone’s mouth, which is so dark.

My father still sits frozen facing the west
He waits for something great: to hear a shofar sound in the west:
The coming of messiah son of David, Rome in flames.
(So the casements seem to blaze, the crosses’ tips.)
It’s good for you like this, my frozen father.
Your swollen face in the redness of the setting sun.
You are like a sun.

Yet on the Christian street outside by the well
My mother stands and screams into the water down below:
Give me back my head, you wicked folk, it drowns!
What’s the matter, wicked ones? Is my head so dear to you?

The birds sing spitefully. The tree by the well,
Its apples ripe, is nourished by my mother’s screams
That start at dawn— :

Who knows where the mounted soldiers are, the savages
That dragged beautiful sisters through the villages?—

At night the rivers wail and the goyim tell of how

The stream leaves naked women on its banks.

*

Not only the tree by the well, they grow everywhere now,
Our grieftrees; though other folk feed on the fruit,
The apples that ripen on blood that they spill.

Autumn expands in the limbs of the people of Judah.
They no longer scream to the uppermost heavens.
In the valleys a scream, black as night, radiates from their bones.

The heavens are deaf and are blue. The scream never rises to God.
Yet the earth feels the misery borne in our feet,
And in kindness she speaks to our feet, saying:
Burrow, make places to sleep, leave your bodies in me,
Why wait any longer?

Nevertheless in the night a star-chorus rises and sings
And the sky is so tender, there is mercy in pain.
Except that the moon is so red that it looks more like Mars.

And Cain son of Adam falls down on his face at the threshold of Eden.

It reeks and the smell is of opium dens, of blood and of willows.
And God runs around on the snow in His uppermost heaven
And roars like the king of the beasts in the emptiness there.
And He wants to escape from His kingdom—such is His loneliness.

*

Father, what can a community of Jews do,
When God has abandoned His children, the shepherd his flock.
When autumn has entered our gardens and fog seeps into our blood.
Our home in the east is a waste land, a dwelling for jackals.
While here in the west our dwellings are gypsy tents,
Straw in the fire and chaff in the storm.

The days here are only to witness this blasphemy.
For us to stare at each other with black and swollen eyes.

At night the terror, a bird so dark, returns to its nest.

What can we do, this terrorized nation of Jews,
When the steeple of Rome towers over our heads,
And we are forced to hear bells toll by day and by night,
On our black sabbaths and black holy days.

Ah, what a curse to live out each day the way we live now:
Any minute a fire will break out under our feet,
From under the houses—
What can we do, this terrorized nation of Jews
With wives and children lamenting: woe for our lives!
And a bloody hue spreads across roof and windowpane.

How ghastly it is to grow up for nothing,
Like a rock in the street, except bodies are not rocks.
Bodies are made of flesh and blood and bone,
And feel the slice of a knife—

We’re powerless, father, to climb up the tower
And tear down the bells that are driving us mad.
To tear down the cross that stabs our copper skies—
So let us go down to the depths, father,
And dig under the earth, beneath all the foundations
And let our pools of poison seep into the globe. . . .

*

Of course I hate you all, a hate that reaches to my fingertips!
A hate that sets my limbs afire with the poison of this unsaid truth:

FOR TWO-THOUSAND YEARS TO BE THE WANDERING JEW YET NOT BELIEVE IN THE CROSS.

Three-sided is the shadow of my fear these two millennia.
Three-sided is the knife-blade of the pain that cuts my flesh.
I have wondered for so long: how can it be
That those who pray in Europe to Bethlehem
And sanctify the Bible—that they are the very beasts
Who dream of the annihilation of every Jew on earth?

The elders of our people know it better than the young:
Bright are the stars and dark the eyes:
“We live by a miracle here in the kingdom of lions.”

O true-true-true is that which my elders say:

The dead man in the church is not my brother, only Jesus.

Nor their Latin “Bethlehem” the Beit-Leḥem of my fathers.

And Mary Magdalene is not my Miryam of Magdala
With her veil of azure wool and her amphora of olive oil.

Still the hundred-thousand roar their Allelujah!
Through the streets they bear with joy the man from Galilee,
Yet I am of those other creatures, those blood-sucking Jews
In tattered prayer-shawls and those straps around their arms,
And in the year two-thousand I pour my bile out in song:

In the name of the son, this faith of millions is a lie!

Beit-Leḥem is a Jewish village!
Joseph’s son is one of us!

We Jews who dwell in Europe.

*

The fifteen million walk silently past you,
Bearing their punishment, eyes like black holes.
For ages they’ve carried a word in their blood
Yet they speak not a word to you now—
I speak to you now:
A poet and Jew in the crucifix kingdom.

With blood from their lungs, so many spit out
The griefword, the curse, and they don’t see the sun
Only moons floating white in the watery blue.

So many, so many, they go on and on
Over dry land and sea, and the wooden post too
That has one of ours bound to it
Crying out: my God, my God! into the void—

Punished, punished, the Jews remain silent
And do not say to you what I have said!

*

Of course I was born here in Europe
I grew up with you here at the crown of the cross:
A miserable willow by its private abyss,
Bethlehem was then just a story I heard,
Distant
And blue.

True, one is afraid with you here in the night:
That robbers will come through the windows
With axes and knives
To an innocent bed,
Or maybe it seems so only to my kind?

Do I dream when I hear them,
Or am I awake,
These screams for help that rise up to the skies?

To the Pale you dispatch me, from there to the seas,
From the sea to the desert where Arabs reside,
With crescent moons sharpened like scythes
For the necks of the sheep—

To the Hudson you ship me—where our brothers
Save dollars to take back to Europe, Jew money
To purchase the crown of the Slavs . . .

To Russia you drive me, the Bolshevik home
With a brother in power who doesn’t speak Polish,
And writes manifestoes to the people in Yiddish—

O homeland of pain in the Slavic kingdom!
Here is your sign for us: all of the graveyards,
Generations of Hebrews have lain decomposing,
Their bodies are nourishment for weeds and trees. . . .

So where can I go to seek out a place,
Where I will not hear you ringing your bells,
Where my eyes will not see your processions—

The only home left for me now is the depths
A welcoming gleam from the watery deep—

Yet I would not go down to the depths
While there is still dry land and bright stars.

Woe for my birth in the kingdom of Slavs
In the shadow of the cross!

*

Now is the time of the eclipse for you in Europe
It gives me some pleasure that your sun is eclipsed.
For thus does blood still flow in the veins,
The odor of sunset arises from clothes—

O your night will turn red at the crown of the cross!

Your skies that lie over the crosses, I hate them
For they are like brass and they weigh on our grief,
A burden of copper:
No rain for us here.
A curse has been placed upon fields stripped bare—

That you should endure what we have endured!

*

We eat autumn’s curse with bread from the fields.
We drink black despair with water from the well.

At night before bed we are given a serving of fear.

And so each day passes. Their fragrance is like that of willow trees
Shivering by dark rivers in the chill of November.

The owls come at night to mourn the dying of summer—

There by the river our shepherds sit dead
And the lambs run about at night in the wild
Vainly seeking a spring to quench their burning throats—

At dawn and at twilight the world is a beautiful world.
The dawn has its wonders to show, the twilight has wonders.
At night the earth and the body take pleasure from stillness.

Yet among us the old folk now rise from their beds
The darkness of night in their thoughts, like willows
In the chill of November,

In the pain of destruction.

*

Mother Mary of Magdala, how it pains me that they dragged you here,
Through streets in Europe,
Unholy Europe,
To mumble Latin in your honor.

When I enter a procession, for example,
To kiss your rose-of-Sharon lips,
And tell you
That they live
Here:
Jews,
Yes, wild Jews,
That they have wives,
That they have children,
Right here in this city,
This grieftown—

Then inevitably it happens that this skull of mine is cracked, the brains
Poured out into the street,
And they all go on with their procession—

Bloody, I pass by you, Mother Mary, and you do not know it,
And they mumble Latin in your honor.

*

Birds are flying—such is exile, this marvelous exile:
The great world with its bright and open heart:
At home throughout the world birds fly:
From the dawn runs a golden wheel

The waters of Babylon speak to our feet:

(Evening interrupts. In the air hangs a fog full of tears)

Come to us. You are an orphan. Without a home. That is your pain.
You are weary of travel. The roads go further still.
The shoreline is so vast—lie down and float with the currents
Until we reach the home of every depth and restlessness:
The great and distant sea.

So what say you, my withered father? What is your counsel, my pious mother?
Shall we obey? It is evening. The fog is full of tears.
Shall we lie down on our backs and float upon the currents
Until we reach the distant sea?

Would your eyes still stare at all the rosy dawns,
The magic sunsets, the daughters of the land?—
Yet rest, the home for all, is only there in the great sea . . .
Shall we obey?
It is evening.
The fog is full of terror—

*

The wafer is red, the host is an apple ripened on blood,
So the moons lie in the heart of the waters.

They lie that way for months at a time:

Christianity ripening.

And great is the crucifix kingdom on sea and on land.

By the rivers of Babylon what does it matter
If a channel is cut through the blood
That spurts from the roof of our mouth?

The body falls into the water, or the body is buried—
What does it matter, the feverish bodies are standing,
The living dead dressed in dark clothing,
By a pit, and the head of a woman is twitching within it.

A church rings bells when it’s time for a funeral,
A signal to mourn.
And a church has an organ to play hallelujah,
At black sabbath time in the streets, a signal to tell the destroyer
To mark all the doors of our houses with blood
The mark of Cain.

*

Of all black prophecies this is the blackest,
And yet I can feel it in all my bones.
So painful this prophecy, I suffer it always,
Each day in this Christian land of pain.

And now we descend, we come down from the ladder
We fashioned and raised: the spirit of Europe.
A love, universal, even for Jew-haters.
A kingdom of heaven for all human souls.

What a sunset, the red is so bright in our eyes:
The bonfires flare in the courtyards, some Jews
Run hither and thither, and none of them know
What to say: we are lost.
They are blind to the sunset, they ignore the abyss.
What they see is the windmill flapping its sails
Up and down in the poisonous void.
The windmill grinds wind and the wind has the odor
Of old cemeteries in the month of November.

What can I do, a traveler alone
With his Jewish blood frozen in fear
From nights of blind violence: a slaughter of sheep,
What will begin to awaken the dead,
The soldiers on Russian steppes, on Polish dirt roads,
What will make them get up and walk about
Just as they are, worm-eaten soldiers,
The Jewish dead of the Slavic kingdom.

The soldiers who died for the spirit rise only
At night, when I get into bed.
They come and approach my white bed
Just as they are, and they say: look at us,
Everyone ends up like us, everyone.

*

Ten will remain, ten wounded Jews, the bloody survivors,
To prove that our nation existed in this Christian land of pain.
Though they no longer come bloody to the gates of Rome: open!

So mysterious: that the kingdom of David has entered our blood
And this kingdom has territory in poor Lithuania:
And the kingdom dreams an obscure Jewish dream
In which birch trees are tiny and moons are huge,
And all of them melt at the head of the bed . . .
And the kingdom has grieftowns in Poland
(In the night there it often cries out in its sleep . . .)
And the kingdom possesses a wide land of grief in Ukraine
With numerous rivers where they slaughter the sheep . . .
And so on and on across the vast continent
An infinite griefland for graves to be dug
With a place for a windmill to hold up black sails:
Pleading for mercy from under the clouds
And pitching the gypsy tents of Jacob—
And the kingdom moves over the seas like the orb of the sun—

Ten will remain, with necks of sheep, with eyes like birds in fog
They will live forever, and birth children in fear:
Children with necks of sheep, with eyes like birds, with blood like roses at twilight.
At twilight a head protrudes from a window:
Its wailing pierces the stars.

*

Which red planet should I tell to hover in the sky
When the sun is eclipsed by the void of generations.
When I walk on roads and see my mothers sitting,
How they cradle in their laps their little murdered children
My slaughtered lambs,
My birds,
On the roads of Europe.

East-West-North-South—such fear beneath the crosses!
What then should I do with my good tear-laden arms?
Should I sit also by the roadside under black crosses?
And lull my lambs to sleep,
My birds,
Upon my knees?
Or should I stand and dig a cemetery here in Europe
For my dead lambs,
For my dead birds?

*

Such a sorrow-keening violin lies crimson in the clouds—
Find a corner for your prayers at sunset, father-mother.
Plead for me too, father-mother.

In the garb of Christians, your son in Europe
Is a homeless Jew,
Earlocks growing from his temples;
Well, the Christians do not see it—a sign my visage
Is covered by a fog—

Such a deep-toned mandolin is left within the fog—
Its groan of pain resounds at twilight when the stars appear.
A Jew so elegantly dressed
Walks around among the Christians
With a sabbath melody like summer.

Such a night of emeralds. The air is filled with incense
Blue opium and chamomile, frankincense and apples—
In my griefwood, wizened mother, the rising moon illumines
My dead upon the trees—

On our shoulders church-domes stand with their petrified messiah
And their silver candelabras—

*

Dress me in a wide Arab abaya, throw a tallis on my shoulder,
Suddenly my poor blood is ablaze with the once-extinguished east.
Go on, take the dress coat and necktie and patent-leather shoes
That I purchased in Eu-r-rope.

Put me on a horse: tell it to gallop and take me away to the desert.
Give me my sand. I leave the boulevards. I go to the sand of the desert.
A people is there with sun-bronzed youth, bodies naked in the blazing sun.
(No bells hang there above your head, only the constellations in motion.)
Then one of the youths of that sun-bronzed people opens his mouth in the desert silence
Burning for love, (it is twilight) . . . and he shouts to the stars: love.
And in answer a bloody blue torrent of water from the rim of the desert says:
LOVE. 

More about: Arts & Culture, History & Ideas, Poetry, Uri Zvi Greenberg, Yiddish literature

 

Have I Shared Too Many Secrets of Jewish Law?

My book opened the closed door of halakhic decision-making. Some think that process isn’t for public consumption.

Have I Shared Too Many Secrets of Jewish Law?
From Mishneh Torah Master of the Barbo Missal, c.1457. The Israel Museum, for Michael and Judy Steinhardt, by Ardon Bar-Hama.
 
Observation
April 9 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Shlomo M. Brody, an Orthodox rabbi and a columnist for the Jerusalem Post, directs the Tikvah Overseas Seminars and serves as a presidential graduate fellow at Bar Ilan University Law School and a junior research fellow at the Israel Democracy Institute.


It’s been five months since my first book was released, and my publisher and I have every reason to be gratified, if not overjoyed, by its reception. A revised collection of columns that first appeared in the Jerusalem Post, the book, A Guide to the Complex: Contemporary Halakhic Debates, is in its second printing and, somewhat astonishingly for a work on so relatively specialized a topic, has even won a National Jewish Book Award.

But others, including some good friends, are decidedly less than happy. In presenting for a general audience the internal discussions of Jewish religious authorities on a host of controversial topics, including abortion and stem-cell research, cruelty to animals, civil marriage in Israel, and female rabbis, I have clearly ruffled some feathers. As I expected, some traditionalist readers have taken umbrage at my inclusion of lesser-known legal figures and opinions. Yet even a few generally open-minded thinkers have apprised me that it is improper for a work of popular literature to highlight the textual nuances and political overtones of debates within Jewish law. This is especially the case when an author (me) subtly offers his own opinion, thus leaving a reader without clear and authoritative guidance when it comes to actual religious practice. And what if a reader happens not to be committed to Jewish law in the first place?

In brief, according to my critics, the decision-making process of Jewish legal thought is not for public consumption, and much mischief can be wrought by exposing it to minds unequipped to grasp or appreciate its complexities. Note: the emphasis here is on the word “process.” Everyone agrees that Jewish legal norms, like all legal norms, must be clear and accessible. The law must be well known so that people can avoid transgression and properly fulfill the divine will. That was the aim behind the great legal codes of Moses Maimonides in the 12th century and of Joseph Karo in the 16th century, and so it should remain today. Yet while the bottom-line norm must be publicized for the good of all, the route by which the norm is arrived at need not be—and, some hold, should not be.

 

While famed for their robust and dynamic nature, Jewish legal debates were historically limited to a highly select group capable of mastering the intricacies and obscurities of legal language and concepts. Indeed, the talmudic rabbis not only declined to reveal these nuances to the masses but saw benefits to their concealment. One such benefit lay in the prevention of possible confusion and error (Shabbat 12b). In some circumstances, for instance, a stringent ruling might be issued to ordinary Jews while the scholarly elite, whose piety and punctiliousness could be relied upon, were vouchsafed a more permissive version (Ḥulin 15a). Another benefit lay in forestalling challenges to rabbinic logic: “When an ordinance is taught in the [land of Israel], its reasoning is not disclosed for twelve months lest there be some who might not agree with it and slight the ordinance itself” (Avodah Zarah 35a). Even when the talmudic rabbis did reveal a formal rationale for a decree, they might simultaneously disguise the social motivations or policy considerations behind it. Thus, when price gouging drove up the cost of turtledoves destined for sacrifice in the Temple, Rabbi Simeon ben Gamliel, knowingly misrepresenting the law, ruled in such a way as to force sellers to lower their prices (Keritot 8a).

Such recourse to esotericism continued to play an important role in later Jewish history, despite objections that it might ultimately betray the law’s commitment to honesty and distort orally transmitted understandings. Nor was the practice limited to Jewish legists. Historians have pointed to parallel trends within Greek and Roman law and later enactments in the Middle Ages and beyond.

Perhaps more surprising is the continued role of deliberate obscurity in modern legal discourse. Meir Dan-Cohen, a professor of law at the University of California in Berkeley, has documented the “selective transmission” of normative rules in British and American criminal law and the resultant discrepancy between the law as taught to citizens and the law as administered by judges. While acknowledging the tension this creates with the ideal of the rule of law, Dan-Cohen defends its use in advancing important social values and policies. Guido Calabresi, formerly of Yale Law School and now a federal judge, has similarly noted that judges employ subtle “subterfuges” to bring legislative statutes in line with societal goals. And this is not to mention the many national-security directives that by their nature are hidden from the public.

All this, of course, cuts very much against the contemporary demand for candor, honesty, and transparency in everything pertaining to public life. By and large, however tolerant we might be of limited forms of “selective transmission,” we expect our leaders to be forthright about their decisions and the rationales for them, to disclose (or at least not to conceal) their social and political agenda and acknowledge the options they have chosen not to endorse.

The same ethos is shared by many traditionally observant Jews today who follow Jewish law or at the very least regard it as a deep source of guidance in their lives. To do so fully means to adopt the rulings of expert rabbinic authorities on a range of issues that touch upon personal, communal, and national welfare. Yet these observant Jews, generally better educated than their grandparents, also have access to original texts, modern translations, and Internet resources, and are acquainted with the claim that rabbinic texts are themselves reflective of particular historical circumstances and/or ideological presuppositions, and should be interpreted in that light. In exchange for their trust and religious commitment, such Jews expect greater transparency regarding today’s halakhic process.

 

And this brings me back to my book, which aims to satisfy that expectation. In it, on any given topic, I present the complete range of established opinions while also noting the significant ideological and historical factors behind them. Let me illustrate with three sorts of issues, each of which, during the writing of the book, confronted me with both a challenge and an opportunity.

First, there is a class of issues, ranging from the kosher status of gelatin, to whether one can remove respirators from the terminally ill, to the use of a microphone in synagogue services on Shabbat, on which many authorities have taken a largely stringent, prohibitive position. While certainly defensible, these rulings have also had their detractors, not only among those representing more liberal tendencies inside (or outside) Jewish circles but even from within mainstream Orthodoxy itself—to the point where many Jews will respond in disbelief when someone claims there is no legitimate dissenting view. Today, many observant Jews expect these minority opinions to be taken into account and wrestled with, forcing advocates of the majority position either to defend it or to adopt a different position in light of new contexts and arguments.

Second, in addition to demanding that scholars deal with counterarguments, today’s expectation of candor forces them to declare the policy considerations and value judgments that inevitably, and legitimately, have played a role in their thinking. This is especially the case when it comes to such hot-button issues as standards for conversion to Judaism, the role of women in Jewish public and ritual life, and, in Israel, the relationship between religion and state. When formulated properly, an acknowledgment of these factors enables an observant Jew to understand the context—the ethos and worldview—that, beyond legal logic or the needs of policy making, has helped to shape an author’s mindset. By affording a glimpse into halakhah as a system encompassing both specific programs and particular values, such openness can also impart greater appreciation of the animating principles of Jewish law.

Finally, and perhaps most controversially, the demand for candor encounters the disquieting fact that, along with the many morally uplifting views and sentiments to be found in Jewish law, there are opinions that can and do raise ethical qualms. These include, among other issues, the use of chickens in kapparot penances before Yom Kippur, some less-than-wholly altruistic rationales for the requirement to perform life-saving measures for non-Jews on the Sabbath, restrictions on the reporting of Jewish criminal behavior to government authorities, and halakhic endorsement of corporal punishment for children.

Some writers tend to downplay the existence of stringent or seemingly unenlightened opinions on these issues with the hope of promoting a more humanistic or gentler vision of halakhah. Yet in an age of unlimited access to information, this tactic ultimately backfires; controversial elements of the tradition are open for all to see. Moreover, directly confronting difficult or discomfiting halakhic opinions, whether tending to the conservative or the liberal side, can have a positive effect, elucidating the degree to which the legal vision informing them remains grounded (or not) in classical sources and advances (or retards) the divinely mandated mission of Jews to promote the right and the good.

In sum: legal esotericism, when executed properly, can indeed conduce to certain social benefits. But so can transparency—which, in addition to being demanded in the modern situation, brings with it many beneficial opportunities to preserve and advance the relevancy and vitality of Jewish norms in the 21st century. It was in hopes of serving that purpose that I set out to write A Guide to the Complex, and I’d like to think that the resonance it has achieved will work to that end.

More about: Halakhah, Religion & Holidays

 

Which Creatures Made Up the Fourth Plague?

Rabbi Yehudah says lions and bears. Rabbi Nehemiah says hornets and gnats. What does arov really mean?

Which Creatures Made Up the Fourth Plague?
A wood gnat. Johan J.Ingles-Le Nobel/Flickr.
 
Observation
April 8 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].

“Animals,” said my almost six-year-old grandson.

“You see?” I said to the retired American rabbi. “Even kindergarten children in Israel know the answer to that.” We had just finished counting off the Ten Plagues, and the retired rabbi, who was one of the seder guests, had challenged us to tell him the meaning of number four, arov.

“What kind of animals?” he asked my grandson.

“Lions and tigers,” my grandson said.

“Were there tigers in ancient Egypt?” the retired rabbi asked me.

“Probably not,” I said. “But I seem to remember a midrash that speaks of lions and bears.”

“That’s Midrash Tanhuma,” said the rabbi “It gives lions and bears as Rabbi Yehudah’s opinion. Rabbi Nehemiah says hornets and gnats. ”

The rabbi knew his sources. He was not the sort of rabbi described in the story he himself had told a few minutes earlier. We had been reading, in the Haggadah, the description in Deuteronomy of the patriarch Jacob’s descent to Egypt, ending with the words, Vayehi sham le-goy gadol atsum va-rav, “And there he became a great people, mighty and numerous.” “I’ll bet you didn’t know” the rabbi had said, “that this verse is about rabbis like me.”

All confessed that they didn’t.

“That’s something I learned from a professor of mine at the Jewish Theological Seminary, back in the 1950s. He was a famous talmudist who didn’t think much of our Jewish knowledge. Once he asked during a class, ‘Who can tell me where Conservative rabbis are mentioned in the Haggadah?’ No one answered and he said: ‘It’s in the verse Vayehi sham le-goy gadol, atsum va-rav. Vayehi sham le-goy gadol—and he became a great goy. Atsum—a mighty great goy. Va-rav—and a rabbi.”

In the Bible, of course, the word goy simply means “people,” while rav, a noun meaning “master” that came to denote a rabbi in post-biblical times, is an adjective meaning “great,” “numerous, or “mighty.” “He thought we were all ḥolomoshim,” said the rabbi.

“What’s a ḥolomish?” I asked.

“You’ll find out soon,” the rabbi said.

“But who’s right?” another guest wanted to know. “Yehudah or Nehemiah?”

“Midrash Tanhuma says that Yehudah is and that arov means mixed animals,” said the rabbi. “But I’d put my money on Nehemiah.”

“Why?”

“Because the Greek Septuagint translates arov as kunómuian, which means dog fly. That’s a Bible translation that dates to the third and second centuries BCE, which puts it hundreds of years before Yehudah and Nehemiah, let alone Midrash Tanhuma. It’s more likely to reflect an ancient tradition about the word’s meaning, one that Nehemiah still had some inkling of and Yehudah didn’t.”

“What’s a dog fly?” queried someone.

“In English it’s also called a stable fly, because it likes to hang around barn animals. It has a nasty sting; swarms of it would have made a fine plague. In fact, arov must have originally meant a swarm.”

“So why mixed animals?”

“The rabbis were guessing, basing themselves on the root of arov, the verb l’arev, to mix. It’s significant that Rashi, who always takes the side of rabbinic tradition in his biblical commentary, doesn’t say anything about arov at all, even though it’s a word begging for an explanation. He must have realized that Midrash Tanhuma was wrong but didn’t want to say so. You have to admit that a plague of biting flies makes more sense than hordes of assorted predators that never band together in nature.”

By now it was time to sing the psalm b’tseyt yisra’el mi-mitsrayim, “When Israel went forth from Egypt,” and when we came to the lines “Tremble, thou earth, before the Lord, before the God of Jacob, who turned the rock into a pool of water and the flint into a gushing fountainhead,” the rabbi raised his hand. “Ḥalamish—flint,” he said. “That’s what my father called me and my brother in Yiddish when he wanted to say we were knuckleheads. It’s a word I was never able to find in a Yiddish dictionary. He couldn’t have made it up, though, because he was a simple man who knew no Hebrew apart from the alphabet and never understood a word of what he was reading. It must have been a term used in the part of the Ukraine that he came from.”

Live and learn. A seder wouldn’t be one if you didn’t.

But it was my grandson who had the last word. The time had come for korekh, the eating of bitter herbs between two pieces of matzah, a custom—performed, the Haggadah tells us, by the sage Hillel in the days when the Temple still stood—that has given contemporary Israeli Hebrew the word karikh, a sandwich. (The verb karakh means to bind, as in binding the pages of a book between its covers.) His knowledge seemingly inexhaustible, the rabbi explained that in English the sandwich was named for the 18th-century Earl of Sandwich, who invented it as a form of fast food brought by his valet to the gaming tables that he was addicted to and refused to leave for the sake of a proper meal.

“So why a karikh?” my grandson asked. “Why not a hillel?”

Before anyone could answer, the kneydlakh soup arrived.

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

More about: Animals, Passover, Religion & Holidays, Ten Plagues

 

Of Dogs and Jews (and Lena Dunham Too)

A stale New Yorker quiz prompts stale accusations of anti-Semitism. More interesting is the trope of the canine Jew.

Of Dogs and Jews (and Lena Dunham Too)
iStock.
 
Observation
April 2 2015 12:01AM
About the author

Ruth Wisse is a research professor in Yiddish and comparative literature at Harvard and a distinguished senior fellow at the Tikvah Fund. Her books include Jews and Power, The Modern Jewish Canon, and, most recently, No Joke: Making Jewish Humor (2013).


Lena Dunham’s mock “quiz” in the March 30 issue of the New Yorker caused a stir in the always roiling Jewish precincts of Manhattan and beyond. The question, “Do the following statements refer to (a) my dog or (b) my Jewish boyfriend?” was followed by 35 items like “He’s crazy for cream cheese,” “He doesn’t tip,” and “[He] has hair all over his body, like most males who share his background.” The premise was so flat and the satire so stale that the piece should have been prosecuted for killing comedy. Instead, it stands accused of anti-Semitism by none other than Abraham Foxman, retiring head of the Anti-Defamation League.

Foxman calls the piece “particularly troubling because it evokes memories of the ‘No Jews or Dogs Allowed’ signs from our own early history in this country, and also because, in a much more sinister way, many in the Muslim world today hatefully refer to Jews as ‘dogs.’” Although he doubts that Dunham had any intention of evoking such comparisons, and acknowledges that humor has rules of its own, Foxman wishes that she had chosen a “less insensitive way to publicly reflect on her boyfriend’s virtues and vices. We are surprised that the New Yorker chose to print it.”

No less off-point than Foxman’s intervention was the immediate response from New Yorker editor David Remnick: “The Jewish-comic tradition is rich with the mockery of, and playing with, stereotypes. Anyone who has ever heard Lenny Bruce or Larry David or Sarah Silverman or who has read [Philip Roth’s] Portnoy’s Complaint knows that.” With so much real hatred and tragedy in the world, Remnick thinks objecting to the so-called anti-Semitism of this piece is “howling in the wrong direction.”

Remnick’s unctuous little sermon may mark the highest level of wit elicited so far in this episode. Among the avalanche of other responses occasioned by Dunham’s squib, one, an op-ed by a former high-school classmate of hers at Saint Ann’s school in Brooklyn, traces her brand of uninformed and ignoble self-ridicule to Jewish parents who choose secular over day-school education for their children. The writer, Avi Taranto, charges Dunham and others like her with failing to confront the current racist hostility directed at their fellow Jews and, with Foxman, finds unfunny the anti-Semitic slurs she borrows without apparent awareness of their pedigree.

As it happens, however, that pedigree boasts a more honorable bloodline than the invective of Nazis or Arabs. Heinrich Heine, one of Germany’s sweetest singers and sharpest critics, immortalized the canine Jew in “Princess Sabbath,” the most beloved of his Hebrew Melodies (1851). The poem tells of Israel, the prince who was long ago transmogrified into a dog.

As a dog, with dog’s ideas,
All the week, a cur, he noses
Through life’s filthy mire and sweepings,
Butt of mocking city Arabs.

Heine’s Jewish mutt—as deformed in his own way as Dunham’s Jewish boyfriend—represents not only the males of the species but the Jewish people in its entirety. Declining to spell out which aspect of their subjugation he is mocking, Heine leaves it to readers to interpret the insult in their own way. But his wit cuts in more than one direction. Who turned the prince into a dog, and why? In the poet’s reading, the Jews owe their metamorphosis to mistreatment at the hands of Gentiles; implicit in his portrait of their suppression is rebuke of their imperious masters.

Moreover, the canine Jew has another side to him. Once a week, on the Sabbath, he is miraculously restored to human form. Most of the poem, equally tongue-in-cheek, celebrates that weekly moment when the regal Jew welcomes his Sabbath bride. Heine, having grown ashamed of his own conversion to Christianity, had evidently acquired an appreciation for those who, unlike him, had withstood the humiliations of remaining Jewish.

 

It was the doggy image more than Princess Sabbath that burned its way into Jewish consciousness. For the rest of the 19th century and into the 20th, Jewish writers deployed the comparison in order to goad Jews into standing up for their natural rights. Heine’s satire in fact played a significant part in rousing the mutt to work for its freedom. Their self-liberation was by no means instantaneous, but within a century, and despite the cataclysm of Hitler’s Holocaust, Jews had reclaimed their national sovereignty in the land of Israel.

No one could mistake your typical Israeli for Heine’s dog, nosing “through life’s filthy mire and sweepings” while today’s mocking enemies throw rocks and missiles at his fellow Jews. It seems, then, that if the image applies at all, it applies only to certain American Jews, and maybe Lena Dunham knows whereof she speaks. Her boyfriend, real or imagined, is for sure no Israeli, but rather the kind of American Jew she would meet—well, through the New Yorker. Forget anti-Semitism: Dunham knows her milieu. She knows her Jewish men, still recognizable throwbacks to Heine’s mongrel when it comes to servility but minus the redemptive posture on even a single day of the week.

But who has whipped these whipped Jewish dogs of today (and, for Dunhams and Silvermans, provided livings from complaining about the results)? Certainly not the Gentiles. It’s funny that Dunham’s housepet is not just any sort of dog but one that “expects to be waited on hand and foot by the women in his life, and anything less than that makes him whiny and distant.” What kind of woman would deliberately choose for her consort a spoiled and bloodless lapdog when there are so many other breeds to be had out there: intrepid hunters and rescuers, heroic huskies, omni-competent collies, frisky herders, loyal-unto-death-and-beyond boxers, brave and joyous retrievers?

As Jackie Mason might say: I’m asking you.

More about: Arts & Culture, Heinrich Heine, Lena Dunham, New Yorker