A few days ago, I went to see the Yiddish version of “Fiddler on the Roof,” now playing off-Broadway at Stage 42. Last year, I saw the Broadway version in English. The story is the same, of course, but the flavor is very different. While the English version was riveting and entertaining, the Yiddish authenticity, sprinkled with Hebrew words and Torah verses, invoked in me deeper feelings. I actually could see my own ancestors in Tevye and his family.

In choosing the name of Tevye — meaning in Hebrew “the goodness of God” — Sholem Aleichem seems to be sending us a message that despite this family’s frequent desperation, they somehow are still hopeful and thankful. Being religious is being hopeful. When things don’t seem to be good, we should keep up the conversation with God, hold ourselves back from quitting, thankful for what we have. Sholem Aleichem highlights the process of acceptance — equality — in a way, even with the goyim.

Living under constant ominous warning and fear that the Russian Cossacks are coming to destroy their village, life seems as unstable to the villagers of Anatevka as a fiddler on a roof. The Tevye in us who still believes in the goodness of God practices self-control that is backed by tradition. Those moments when tradition may be morphing in front of our eyes is still the tree of life to those who hold onto it. Those are moments not just of wearing the Star of David but of being the Star of David.

One of the glaring differences between the two productions — the English and the Yiddish — is the personal authenticity. Throughout the play, the word “Torah” is written in Hebrew in gigantic black letters in the middle of the set. Yet, there was a scene when one of the Cossacks tears the panel where the word Torah is written. At that moment, the tear was felt through the audience. The cut was even deeper than in the last scene when Tevye and the villagers are given only three days to abandon their homes, to pack up generations of their lives in a suitcase. The message is clear — in adversity, we need to pick up and start again. The Torah sign is stitched together and the journey continues.
It stands to reason that if we keep taking our homes with us where we go, we will eventually find our place — a place without violence, a place of peace.

On this Thanksgiving, let us give thanks for where we are and what we have.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela