Laughing with Tears

Wandering Stars By Sholem Aleichem Translated by Aliza Shevrin Penguin Group 2009, $29.95, pp. 425

Of all the Yiddish writers, no one has been more widely translated than Sholom Aleichem, and no body of Yiddish literature has been more accessible in English than his. Twenty-eight volumes of Sholom Aleichem’s collected works in the original Yiddish were published posthumously, but Wandering Stars, a novel, was not part of the collection. Until now, it has seen only one published English language version (abridged, and translated by Frances Butwin in 1952 and out of print for many years). There is good reason to welcome a new translation of this little known work, as 2009 is the 150th anniversary of Sholom Aleichem’s birth.

This book is special. It is not just about shtetl Jews, it is about the Yiddish theater. It reminds us that Sholom Aleichem was more than a writer of stories. He was also a playwright with a great love for both theater and music. This novel is a tribute to the peculiar folk who had no other home than the makeshift stages of the Yiddish theater.

Sholom Aleichem wrote the first part of Wandering Stars exactly 100 years ago. It was printed, like most of his literary output, in serial form, by the Morgen-Journal in New York, one of the many Yiddish publications of the day. The novel’s first half was printed under the title Blondzhene Shtern, which properly translates as “wandering stars.” The second half appeared a year later, under a different title, Nah Venad, which is a Hebrew phrase that just describes “wanderers” with no mention of stars. There is a subtle difference between the two titles; blondzhen conveys an aura of sporadic moving and aimlessness, while nah venad assumes wandering to be a more permanent condition.
In all his works, Sholom Aleichem conjures up imaginary tales about men, women and children—inventions, yes, but never far removed from life in the shtetls and townships of his youth and of his wanderings. Call his characters by whatever names—Motl the cantor’s son, Reyzl, Leibel, Sheyne Sheyndl, Menakhem Mendl, Tevye—Jewish readers loved them because they recognized them. By and by, gentile readers came to love them, too, even if they did not recognize them. It is in the nature of good art that the particular becomes universal.

People read Sholom Aleichem and call him a humorist. He was that, surely. But more than that, he was a chronicler of his people. In all of his writings he holds “the mirror up to nature,” as Shakespeare would have it, always with sly comment and always with affection. He has fun with his characters, he does not make fun of them: the difference between humor and ridicule.

In Wandering Stars, some parts are out-rightly humorous, some funny-sad, and some sad-funny. A Jew always laughs with a tear in his eye, what is called in Yiddish men lakht mit yashtsherkes. And even when there is deep grief, a smile should never be far away. The faith of a Jew celebrates life, and Sholom Aleichem has us convinced that life without laughter is no life.

Wandering Stars is an apt title. Jews don’t just sit, they travel, by horse-drawn cart, by train, by boat. And when they do, they talk, they complain, they play cards, they try to outdo each other, brag, argue, make a deal, find a match for a daughter, exaggerate their own success and criticize someone else’s. They bluff, they boast. Most are dirt poor. But their conversation is rich with quotes—and misquotes—from the Talmud, from the Commentaries, in Hebrew, sometimes even in Aramaic.

When they are actors in Wandering Stars, they behave no differently, only with more panache. One prominent impresario’s misquotes are drawn from world literature, such as “‘who among us,’ said Tolstoy, ‘was not once young and fresh,’” or “as Schiller said, ‘Finita la Commedia.’” There are, thank God, many kinds of Jews: adamant, boisterous, bedraggled, befuddled, bristling—and that’s just from the beginning of the alphabet. One type that is rare is the silent Jew. In Sholom Aleichem’s books, you don’t get many of those.

Elsewhere in the world of literature there are well-dressed, affluent people who make intelligent, stimulating conversation. For Sholom Aleichem, erudition seems to have nothing to do with clothes or wealth. Amkho, simple Jews, Sholom Aleichem’s people, are not elegant—not on the train, not in the shtetl, not in the boarding houses. The only spurts of pretended elegance in this book’s characters are reserved for the stage.

Despite some structural flaws, Wandering Stars is a delightful book. While the central story line is fairly conventional (lovers who lose each other and then spend years searching for one another), the supporting cast of characters is masterfully drawn. Even when morose and dejected, they are brimming with life. There are exchanges of letters, clashes between tradition and enlightenment, there are non-threatening gentiles who involve themselves in Jewish theater; there is the migration of actors first across the European continent, to England and then to America—in each instance creating a distinct dynamic. Despite the large canvas, this book never loses focus on individuals’ lives.

This version of Wandering Stars, translated by Aliza Shevrin, constitutes, unlike its 1952 predecessor, the entire unabridged novel. I wish it were possible to report that Shevrin achieved the transformation into English with uniform success.

American Jewish literature has developed a style and rhythm of English phrases that are recognizably Jewish. Using these phrases sets a distinctly ethnic tone. Why say “may he be healthy” (which is literally correct) when “he should only live and be well” conveys the full flavor of the idea? Why call the drivers carting both scenery and people “teamsters” (a distracting contemporary term) when “coachmen” is more accurate and denotes the era? One man calls a young lad, “dearie.” “Dearie” in English connotes gender. Why use an appellation that carries a confusing female connotation? Would “four sticks,” meant to conjure the image of a Jewish wedding ceremony, not be better rendered as “four canopy poles?” There are, alas, quite a few such awkward renditions in this translation.

Any Yiddish text is filled with Hebrew phrases. A translator must take care not to mix-and-match Ashkenazi and Sephardic Hebrew. In transliterating Eastern European Hebrew, it is best to stick to Ashkenazi. If one says riboynoy shel oylom in one place, it has to be u’nesaneh toykef (not netaneh tokef) in another.
It is clear that Shevrin has great love for the writings of Sholom Aleichem. Perhaps it is also a sense of awe that moved her to render the author’s text into an English that is too faithful to the dictionary. Although there are passages of great beauty in her version (most notably in the letters section) the overall effect is literalness resulting in a stilted translation rather than one that is evocative of the original’s imagery and flights of fancy.

This having been said, Wandering Stars is well worth reading, even savoring and re-reading.

Tony Kushner’s erudite introduction says as much about the writing as it does about the theater—and Kushner is one of the most qualified people to speak about both. I wish, however, that he had not referred to the author of this book as “Aleichem.” This is a mistake many people make. Sholom Rabinovich took his nom de plume from a greeting: Sholom Aleichem means “peace be with you.” The phrase is not divisible into a first and last name. The author cannot be referred to as Mr. Be-With-You!

Kushner points out that Wandering Stars is virtually contemporary with S.Y. Ansky’s The Dybbuk. Jewish demons seem to be different from other people’s. They are not easily conjured up and, once present, they are not easily banished. A dybbuk, for instance, needs a whole community for an exorcism. A quorum of Jews, wrapped in prayer shawls, must be assembled. Black candles are lit, solemn prayers are intoned and the Kabbalah is invoked. People often describe a writer’s work as a constant effort to banish personal demons, but writing about Jewish demons is far removed from putting down a few pages of agonized writing just to rid one person of his nightmares!

That is not to say that Sholom Aleichem’s mind was not full of ghosts. We find moment/images scuttling to and fro, fantasy heaped upon fantasy. But we cannot call these apparitions “demons” by any stretch. They are too close to gashmiyus—to concreteness. Far from wanting to banish ghosts, Sholom Aleichem embraces them, nurtures them, laughs with them, grieves with them. What is more, he gives them a permanent place in the shtetl of his imagination, a place from which no one can ever banish them.


Theodore Bikel is an actor, activist, musician and Yiddishist. He is fluent in a number of languages, including Yiddish and Hebrew, and devotes much energy to the promotion of Yiddish. Currently, he is appearing in a one-man show with music entitled Sholom Aleichem: Laughter Through Tears, of which he is the author.