Words on Fire

by Joshua Gross

NEW HAVEN - I had no idea that a Yiddishist could have groupies.

Evidently, I was wrong, as a couple that had driven to New Haven all the way from Westchester pointed out.

For some people, Yiddish is a matter of life or death and the preservation of the language a life calling. Many of these scholars bicker endlessly about the minutiae of the language without much of a sense of humor. Dovid Katz, on the other hand, circumvents the fussier details and does what few others have been able to: make the study of Yiddish an accessible and appealing experience.

A broad-shouldered, long-haired, big-bearded synthesis of ZZ Top and Michael Moore, Katz could pass as a Beat poet much more easily than the reputed intellectual he actually is. Perpetually leaning forward throughout his speech, his face scrunched into a polite smile, Katz entranced and entertained the students, faculty and community members who gathered at Joseph Slifka Center for Jewish Life at Yale recently with the skill of a seasoned ringmaster. Even in English he sounds as if he's speaking Yiddish; the language's squeakily undulating cadence is unmistakable.

Katz was at Yale to promote his new book, "Words On Fire." At breakneck speed, he hurtled through the history of the Yiddish language. Ashkenazim have three distinct languages: Hebrew, Aramaic and Yiddish. The former two are sacred, the latter a universal vernacular. Thus, in Jewish discourse, these three languages became separated by function.

"The same scholar who might write a Talmudic tract in Aramaic would write a letter in Yiddish…This is a society where scholars are the knights on horses."

Yiddish words, Katz explained, can be traced back to their original Hebrew or Germanic. All of the multiple dialects retain the core structure of the language; even if the words or pronunciations differ across geographic expanses, they can be traced back to the original Germanic or Hebraic. A word will never be traced back to the Germanic in Amsterdam but the Hebraic in Lithuania. He peppered his speech with linguistic tidbits, for example, the Yiddish word for sun derives from the Hebraic, while moon from the Germanic.

Katz described the turbulent relationship of Yiddish and publishing, which began in the 15th century. Jews originally had misgivings about publishing because it was a reputed to be a gentile enterprise meant to churn out Bibles and spread Christianity. One of the first Yiddish publishers actually converted to Christianity, which prompted the Jewish community to boycott his books and actually burn those books that had already been published.

In the 19th century, a certain modernizing of Yiddish developed in western Europe (whereas it was confined to the traditional religious commentaries and writings in eastern Europe), influenced by the haskalah movement. The Yiddish press began to print novels and political tracts; the Bund, Jewish socialism, and other political organizations adopted Yiddish as their language of choice.

These European Jews developed the idea of a modern culture that still employed Yiddish as its mode of discourse. However, the dark specter of the Holocaust has forever changed the way that Jews relate to the language. Katz places much of the blame for the resultant decline of Yiddish on those Yiddish-speaking Jews in North America who are rapidly disappearing today.

"[Yiddish] has no future in Israel because of an anti-Yiddish attitude; the Yiddish speakers were wiped out in Europe, but there was a failure of Yiddish speakers in America and Canada who had no Hitler and no Stalin and still did not pass this language onto their families," Katz bemoaned.

As for the present, Katz has mixed feelings. According to him, 200-300 Yiddish books were published last year, all Chassidic books. When he was asked if these Chassidic Jews wrote any literature, Katz's was tongue-in-cheek.

"If literature means attempts at short stories, poetry, and drama, then yes."

Forty years ago, the religious community would view such secular exercises, written in Yiddish, as a threat. This is no longer the case. Because there are so few secular Yiddishists, the Chassidic community no longer fears being subsumed by that world as it once did.

"I think that there is still a big hang-up about Yiddish outside of the tiny circle of committed secular Yiddishists and the demographically exploding population of Chassidic Jews who are producing thousands and thousands of Yiddish speakers," Katz said.

Katz, playing linguistic doctor, diagnosed this deficiency as a byproduct of assimilation.

"With Jews there is still a squeamishness with our Jewishness in an ethnic sense. This is reflected in the way we name ourselves. Mendel will only feel comfortable as Menachem a few times a year when he is called up to the Torah. We have what we want to be called in real life, and we have a Hebrew name, and a few, if we have Yiddish grandparents, maybe even a Yiddish nickname."

Joshua Gross is a freelance writer and director of alumni relations at Yale's Slifka Center.