Human Touch

than the rabbis would like to admit. The comprehension of a Jewish joke in its thickest vernacular is the talisman by which one Jew knows another. Do you remember the teamsters in “Yoshe Kalb”? They had got into the habit of praying without phylacteries and praying shawl, because of the exigencies of their trade. One of the more pious members of the congregation makes a row about the casual way in which they take their religion. He wins his point and the teamsters, beaten, are routed from the beth hamidrash, whereupon one of them says, in a phrase, the savor of which evaporates upon translation: “Vel ichgain tzu maine ferd niche gedavnt!” (“So I’ll go to my horses un-prayed!”)

All of those within hearing of this printed voice I admonish to go to see, and hear, “The Wise Men of Chelem,” which Maurice Schwartz has been alternating with “Yoshe Kalb.” It is a sheer delight from beginning to end, with the possible exception of the introductory scene, too necessary, I’m afraid, in the nether regions. The silly old rabbi of Chelem, played delightfully by Mr. Schwartz himself, is a constant source of amusement. The curious situations which the moratorium on death inflicts on the chosen village are on the order of fairy tale untrammeled by common sense. What, for example, could be more fantastic than bringing in a barrel the moon needed to grace the wedding ceremony? Or more amusing than the simple-minded manner in which the rabbi answers the simplest questions of his almost feeble-minded flock?

We who came to the theatre of Mr. Schwartz from the purlieus of Broadway may take rather for granted the excellences of his acting and directing. But attend almost any other Yiddish theatre and you will realize how extraordinary, within the class of the Yiddish theatre, is the performance Mr. Schwartz gives. The other day I visited another Yiddish theatre, which, by contrast with Mr. Schwartz’s, was hopelessly amateur. Perhaps not hopelessly, for I cannot imagine that Mr. Schwartz has labored in vain; certainly other so-called “managers” have attended his performances. And, besides, I have a vague recollection of the ten, twenty, thirt’ type of melodrama that used to be the average of the Yiddish theatre perhaps some ten years ago. I believe that adultery, an ocean of tears, a couple of fainting fits and at least one murder, or suicide, used to be the staple of every Yiddish theatre drama. Happy days!