Penguin Classics edition, translated by Aliza Shevrin
This edition's annotation system is uniquely irritating among Penguin Classics, making the text of the Tevye stories a trial to read. I read the later and inferior unfinished novel, Motl the Cantor's Son first, to put off dealing with it. Tevye narrates in first person (when Fiddler on the Roof follows him around the village as he talks, it reflects this) – and his speech is peppered with his own free and easy interpretations of the scriptures. Both Tevye's interpretations and the original quotes have been incorporated into the body of the text. They're not footnoted. They aren't even in brackets, for goodness' sake. They're part of the same sentence as what he's saying. There are usually italics, but their use always doesn't make clear what's the actual quote and what Tevye sees it as, and even then, there aren't always two versions of the same idea, so you don't know what is and is not glossed. And italics are sometimes used for other things as well. I can't imagine how this presentation is useful; surely the only people who might not struggle with it are those who know their Torah inside out, but then they could spot his misinterpretations by themselves. I wondered if the system originates in a Jewish textual tradition. Anyone? If so, it may not be the best choice for a general imprint like Penguin as it's inaccessible and unintuitive for readers who have never been observant Jews. Likewise the glossary of Yiddish, Russian and Jewish terms could have been better: some are very well known, info on others is skimpy, and it doesn't mention more obscure words that are in the text. [A lot of us think the notes in classics were better when we were younger. Is that an abstruse symptom of ageing?] Anyway, I tried to get as much as I could out of the book despite struggling with the unusual annotation.
In some other posts, I've mentioned that whilst I was growing up, I got so tired of hearing about things related to the Second World War that then, for about 15 years, I read and watched practically nothing related to it. And because of that break, there are aspects of it which were then unfamiliar, which now seem almost new and strangely emotive. Once I'd seen too many pictures of heaps of dead people's glasses and shoes and they ceased to have an impact. But late last year I read a bit about the destruction of shtetl culture and the decline of the Yiddish language, and can't think of these things without sadness about what, and who, was lost. I find endangered languages very sad anyway, but this is a sadder story than most because of the scale of deliberate human destruction: before the war there were 11-13 million Yiddish speakers; about 5 million were killed in the Holocaust, and most of those who weren't migrated to countries where they needed to speak other languages to get by; most contemporary estimates of Yiddish speaker numbers are more than 15 years old and included a lot of elderly people.
Reading a book like this one is partly about seeing that shtetl culture from the inside, whilst it still existed. Aleichem wasn't entirely positive about it, however – he could see it stifling some people, some aspects of progress. (It needed peaceful change, not the one it was subjected to.) The book isn't, however, as emphatic as Fiddler on the Roof, where the whole plot is a retort to Tevye's opening song about Tradition: that structure surely a reflection of the time of the musical's and film's production - the Wetern 1960s and another dismantling of traditions.
Motl the Cantor's Son
I'd have probably enjoyed this at age 10-11, when I read a lot of Victorian & Edwardian children's classics. Sholem Aleichem is frequently compared to Mark Twain; it's a long time since I've read Twain, but the boy narrator, simple style, and adventures, some of which don't seem all that big to an adult, produce echoes. Nine-year-old Motl's narration doesn't always sound like a boy - often it has the confident voice of an adult author - yet the child's limited perspective on people and events is retained. There was frustratingly little insight into the grownups, who end up defined by a handful of habits: Motl's mother's frequent crying, or his elder brother Elyahu who continually wallops him and sets up various small business ventures. Another of the less pleasant, yet historically interesting, notable features of Motl was child characters learning sexism from adults via cumulative remarks. I'd guess that the extended-family group must be held together by some degree of warmth and communality, but a lot of what ends up on the page is bickering. This is the kind of thing a young reader would be less likely to notice: for them it's fair enough if adults are background noise; what they care about are the other children.
Earlier in this two-part unfinished novel, the stories were too short to hold my interest; they became involving when they later extended over several chapters: especially Elyahu's (and the whole family's) madcap business enterprises based on advice in an early self-help manual; the emigration journey across Europe; and more jobs and business ideas when they finally reach New York. It was great to hear about all the places in Europe they passed through, what they were like at the time, and how the family was treated by different countries' charitable bodies who aided refugees. (Even more interesting if your forebears followed similar routes.) This family's stops include Vienna and Antwerp - and a while in Whitechapel. If you've been to that area of London, this chapter is great for seeing a historical side of it less familiar than the usual Ripper and Krays material.
Ellis Island is one of those terms that, to non-Americans who feel bombarded by American culture, can seem hackneyed despite not knowing the full background. Motl tells the early 1900s immigrant's experience of it in excruciating detail, the hanging about, the dehumanising procedures, the anxiety over sponsors and separation from people.
As Motl himself gets used to life in America, he can't be bothered hearing about pogroms. It was strikingly similar to Philip Roth's Portnoy not wanting to know about the war and the Holocaust – both want to forget historic fears and get on with their lives as Americans: Motl and his friends looking set to become lower middle class businessmen, and Portnoy from the following generation, increasingly integrated as part of an intelligentsia.
Tevye the Dairyman
I didn't find Tevye quite as blameworthy a character as intro suggests (esp re his daughter Shprintze, who is, incidentally, absent from the film), yet he is hardly as straightforwardly "warm and wise" as the blurb says either; the film even makes him a more complex and contradictory personality than that - good for a chat around the village, but clearly less fun at home.
Curiously, the introduction describes Fiddler on the Roof as one of the schmaltziest musicals. Was the writer enjoying a pun for its own sake? Despite my love of many things camp, I don't generally get on with musicals and I think I know a schmaltzy one when I see it. The IMDb reviews, too, are full of people saying, 'I don't like musicals but...' Fiddler seems to me a very New Hollywood variant: it addresses more difficult and delicate subjects than old-style productions did, even making a Russian Communist a minor hero; it's more gritty than pretty (and don't the people look remarkably ordinary compared with contemporary film stars?); and circumstances are such that everything can't quite be alright in the end, even if it looks as if it will be for some characters. [Tevye may be off to New York, but Chava's half-Jewish kids in Cracow - what fate awaits them in 40 or 50 years?]
I'm writing this paragraph in June, expanded from notes made in January; the following now gives me deja-vu, after saying similar about one other book I finished this year. Tevye is an outstanding example of an unreliable narrator: the narrative has an openness that allows the reader to see what other characters are really like rather than guess about distortion through Tevye's view. (His wife Golde, who has more personality in the book than on screen, comes across as an intelligent and capable woman who probably would have been very successful in an age where she'd have been able to work for herself after divorcing this fool of a husband who doesn't respect her better judgement.) Tevye's exuberant garrulousness carries the story along; what would make him irritating as a real person makes him fun to read. 'Only a writer would value him,' quotes the introduction; but the reader is able to press pause on his chat any time by putting the book down, and you can't do that with acquaintances, much as some people would like to. Still, it's unusual, and a considerable skill, to make a narrative style so outright enjoyable where the narrator would grate in reality. There's quite some skill in recreating that for translation too, although quotes in intro indicate that, unfortunately, a lot of wordplay has been lost in translation. Film-Tevye isn't quite such a chatterbox, or as much of a Walter Mitty or a crawler to authority - toning this down makes him more watchable for the audience he is more literally talking to. His silliness comes across on the screen in other ways - he tries to assert his dictatorial authority to little effect, and on one occasion looks like a toddler having a tantrum instead. He looks more of an old fashioned dad character than the holy fool he sometimes seems in the book (it's a Christian trope, but also a Russian one, so maybe...) He's not the outright creepy sort of unreliable narrator: he simply lacks self-awareness, and has traits which are variously old-fashioned, and/or a nuisance to his family in other ways.
Are the Tevye stories sadder and more moving for the post-WWII reader? Tevye and others still have implicit hope things will be okay more or less where they are, in Ukraine. (He doesn't emigrate to the USA in the book, although Sholem Aleichem did.) We know that, whilst he's less likely to live to see the war, his children and their children may well. I, like many, am tired of the excess of modern novels about the war, yet I felt such dread and sadness for these characters and their inevitable obliviousness to the short time they and their world had remaining. The film foregrounds the dread by making threats of violence against Jews, encouraged by the Tzar's officials, a part of the film almost from the start - whereas on paper Tevye and his fellow villagers' existence have long phases of not thinking about this danger; after all, things have been tolerable where they are for a long time. They are rudely interrupted, it seems, rather than having it hanging over them continually.
I usually look at multiple translations before deciding on one, but in this case it was impossible as Sholem Aleichem books aren't widely available in the UK. Ignoring the annotation issue (not easy) this one at least flows well, and has a strong personality. There may be room for improvement, if someone can translate the wordplay more effectively - dimensions of these stories appear to be absent in English. The Tevye the Dairyman stories are pretty enjoyable for themselves as well as being historically interesting. Motlthe Cantor's Son had its moments, even a couple of laugh-out-loud ones, but it was one of those classics that interested me more as a historical document than for outright entertainment value.