1) Yiddishland
Sent on: 05/12/1998 11:19:09
Dear friends:
There exists in Swedish a fine book "Jiddischland" ("Yiddishland", Bokforlaget Nya Doxa, 1996) by Salomon Schulman (b. 1947), a son of surviving Polish Jews, nowadays a children's doctor, writer and translator (he has a o translated I.L Peretz into Swedish). Below is a translation, a bit rude perhaps, but it should be interesting, from the introduction. Schulman presents Yiddish culture as a coherent unity. He writes about everyday life in the shtetl, literature, music, film, Bund, Jews in Bolshevist Russia, Holocaust, the story of Jews in Sweden, Hasidic strains etc. Through all this runs a desperate longing for his unseen brother Zwi, murdered by the Nazis four years old. "Too young to live but old enough to die", as Schulman writes.
I hope you'll enjoy this little tidbit.
Salomon Schulman: From the introduction to "Jiddischland"
In Yiddishland
"Way up in my teens when people asked which languages I could speak I replied with an enumeration that excluded Yiddish, as I only spoke that language with a selected few. When these few individuals in their turn had to state what language they spoke, they almost always replied: "German". With my own school German as a reference I could hardly believe that anyone would swallow this white lie. And when more and more _gojim_ self-centredly stated that in that case it had to be Swiss German I was on the edge of bursting with laughter.
These repeated scenes were of course rooted in Jewish tragicomedy. Yiddish was their caste mark and the language of their sufferings. For them it was a question of hiding their stain, having been the chosen Untermenschen, mocked by all and everyone.
They mediated their idiom to us with an extreme hesitation, if at all. Many of them wouldn't like to see us as the next doomed generation, worn in these fragile linguistical clothes. In our homes there was a constant, almost desperate, mixture of Polish, Yiddish and Swedish.
In a paradoxical way the situation reminded of the 50's in the Soviet Union. The son of a Russian Yiddish poet once tried to explain to me why he didn't speak Yiddish. Nobody at all _spoke_ Yiddish, he said, it was _whispered_
I had the good luck myself of being fed with Yiddish rather constantly. The rest was an unbelievably confused mix of Polish and Schwedish ("Schwenska" in the original, alluding to the German "Schwedisch" and the Swedish "svenska" IJ). I must admit, however, that it was a relief for me to begin going to school, being able to escape from this cacophony of words and at last polish that so often criticized accent of mine.
You may imagine my astonishment when I, about 15 years old, picked a Hebrew book out of my dad's bookcase to contemplate the boring prayers. They looked just like the ones I had gone on with in _cheder_. To my surprise the book was written in a totally incomprehensible Hebrew. I had heard about Armenian, but it would have been very much unlike my dad to keep the knowledge of such an ancient language for himself.
Then as a bolt out of the blue the first word appeared from this blurred mass of a text: Brezezin. Brezezin, hell that was my parents' hometown!
Then I continued, as a matter of course, to spell my way through this presumptive Hebrew publication that showed up to be printed in pure Yiddish! Within the course of some minutes I was delivered of my illiteracy. A whole world opened up for my enthusiastic eyes.
Now, when I have become a cultivated person, goodness gracious me, and people ask me which languages I speak I always first of all, and with pride, reply: Yiddish."
Ingemar Johansson
There exists in Swedish a fine book "Jiddischland" ("Yiddishland", Bokforlaget Nya Doxa, 1996) by Salomon Schulman (b. 1947), a son of surviving Polish Jews, nowadays a children's doctor, writer and translator (he has a o translated I.L Peretz into Swedish). Below is a translation, a bit rude perhaps, but it should be interesting, from the introduction. Schulman presents Yiddish culture as a coherent unity. He writes about everyday life in the shtetl, literature, music, film, Bund, Jews in Bolshevist Russia, Holocaust, the story of Jews in Sweden, Hasidic strains etc. Through all this runs a desperate longing for his unseen brother Zwi, murdered by the Nazis four years old. "Too young to live but old enough to die", as Schulman writes.
I hope you'll enjoy this little tidbit.
Salomon Schulman: From the introduction to "Jiddischland"
In Yiddishland
"Way up in my teens when people asked which languages I could speak I replied with an enumeration that excluded Yiddish, as I only spoke that language with a selected few. When these few individuals in their turn had to state what language they spoke, they almost always replied: "German". With my own school German as a reference I could hardly believe that anyone would swallow this white lie. And when more and more _gojim_ self-centredly stated that in that case it had to be Swiss German I was on the edge of bursting with laughter.
These repeated scenes were of course rooted in Jewish tragicomedy. Yiddish was their caste mark and the language of their sufferings. For them it was a question of hiding their stain, having been the chosen Untermenschen, mocked by all and everyone.
They mediated their idiom to us with an extreme hesitation, if at all. Many of them wouldn't like to see us as the next doomed generation, worn in these fragile linguistical clothes. In our homes there was a constant, almost desperate, mixture of Polish, Yiddish and Swedish.
In a paradoxical way the situation reminded of the 50's in the Soviet Union. The son of a Russian Yiddish poet once tried to explain to me why he didn't speak Yiddish. Nobody at all _spoke_ Yiddish, he said, it was _whispered_
I had the good luck myself of being fed with Yiddish rather constantly. The rest was an unbelievably confused mix of Polish and Schwedish ("Schwenska" in the original, alluding to the German "Schwedisch" and the Swedish "svenska" IJ). I must admit, however, that it was a relief for me to begin going to school, being able to escape from this cacophony of words and at last polish that so often criticized accent of mine.
You may imagine my astonishment when I, about 15 years old, picked a Hebrew book out of my dad's bookcase to contemplate the boring prayers. They looked just like the ones I had gone on with in _cheder_. To my surprise the book was written in a totally incomprehensible Hebrew. I had heard about Armenian, but it would have been very much unlike my dad to keep the knowledge of such an ancient language for himself.
Then as a bolt out of the blue the first word appeared from this blurred mass of a text: Brezezin. Brezezin, hell that was my parents' hometown!
Then I continued, as a matter of course, to spell my way through this presumptive Hebrew publication that showed up to be printed in pure Yiddish! Within the course of some minutes I was delivered of my illiteracy. A whole world opened up for my enthusiastic eyes.
Now, when I have become a cultivated person, goodness gracious me, and people ask me which languages I speak I always first of all, and with pride, reply: Yiddish."
Ingemar Johansson