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Commemorating Philip Roth means confronting his limitations head on
(JTA) — Next Sunday marks the 90th anniversary of Philip Roth’s birth. In celebration of the famed novelist’s work, a scholarly conference titled “Roth@90,” sponsored by the Philip Roth Society, will be held starting Wednesday at the Newark Public Library. That will be followed by a weekend of high-profile events — staged readings, panel discussions, a bus tour of Roth’s old Newark neighborhood — co-presented by the library and the New Jersey Performing Arts Center.
Exactly 10 years ago, we commemorated his 80th birthday in a similar fashion. Dozens of Roth scholars made learned presentations about his work, of which Roth attended exactly zero. Later that week, the author read aloud from his novel “Sabbath’s Theater” in front of hundreds of fans, friends and well wishers. The proceedings were televised on C-Span.
Roth was being acclaimed for having just wound down an exemplary career. With the exception of the Nobel Prize, what garland evaded him? Was there a high-culture literary platform where his name wasn’t a virtual watermark? Could he publish any novel without hundreds of reviews being written in newspapers across the world? Was there a serious fiction writer out there with greater renown?
So much has changed in the decade between the two conferences. To begin with, Roth died in 2018. In that same span, the country witnessed the election of Donald Trump and the fissure it exposed in society in general and the Jewish community in particular. America endured one convulsive racial reckoning after another. Finally, in October of 2017, the #MeToo movement gained massive public salience.
All of those events, along with digital media’s indomitable ascent, have combined to affect and reshape Roth’s literary legacy. That legacy is far less assured than all the (justified) praise and lionizing that will occur this week might suggest.
Let’s start with Jews. The Trump era yielded two seemingly irreconcilable data points. On the one hand, Jewish-Americans endured the Charlottesville riot, the Tree of Life synagogue attack and a stunning rise in antisemitic incidents. On the other, there was staunch support for Trump among Orthodox Jews and supporters of Israel’s right wing.
Leaving that conundrum for others to parse, I simply note that Orthodox Jews and right-wing Zionists are almost completely absent in Roth’s fiction. A young Roth wrote a sensitive portrait of Holocaust survivors who want to start a suburban yeshiva in “Eli the Fanatic.” He also sketched a militant religious-nationalist Zionist in “The Counterlife,” Mordecai Lippman, who, according to Roth biographer Blake Bailey (about whom more below), was based on Elyakim Haetzni, one of the so-called founding fathers of the settlement movement. In the same novel, a version of the narrator’s brother falls under the settlement leader’s sway.
And that’s it, across a half century of writing. For traditionalist Jewish readers, whose political and social influence in the United States and Israel is substantial and growing, Roth’s fiction is not a mirror, nor a signpost, nor a scroll upon which is inscribed some essential truth.
The Jews who populated his stories, the Jews he best understood, were of Ashkenazi descent, white, liberal, assimilated and secular. His courage was to valorize them over and against other Jews who viewed them as defective, lost or even as apostates. Thus Anne Frank in “The Ghost Writer” was portrayed as a patron saint of secular Judaism. Elsewhere, his stories abound in proud, professionally accomplished diaspora Jews. They rarely think about God. Synagogue attendance is reserved strictly for lifecycle events and High Holy Days, if that.
A novelist, of course, is not a political clairvoyant. However, the immediate future of Judaism is being greatly shaped by Jews whose population and influence are growing and whom Roth rarely portrayed. In this manner, another stellar writer like Cynthia Ozick — herself Orthodox and quite attuned to the mindset of her co-religionists — might fare better commercially and emerge as more relevant than her friend in the coming decades.
Roth didn’t just write about Jews. In my book “The Philip Roth We Don’t Know: Sex, Race and Autobiography,” I pointed out that depicting non-Jewish Black people was an unrecognized “obsessional theme” across his 28 novels and 25 short stories. Much to my dismay, I found Roth’s multi-decade treatment of his African and African-American characters often to be crude, thoughtless and sometimes racist.
Familiarize yourself with the degrading portraiture we receive of Black people in “The Great American Novel” (1973), or a short story like “On the Air” (1970), and you might reconsider what Roth was after in “The Human Stain,” in which an academic who is accused of racism turns out to be an African American who had been “passing” as white and Jewish. The book, the 2001 Pen/Faulkner Award winner, is often seen as a sensitive treatment of racial issues in America, and perhaps as the author’s attempt to extend the hand of friendship to another oppressed minority.
In fact, my best guess is that, as with many Jewish writers post-1967, Roth was shaken by the deterioration of the Black-Jewish alliance. His frustrations were reflected in prose that often referenced Black communities in his hometown of Newark but showed little curiosity about their lives or sympathy for their plight.
Obviously, this type of literary rendering of African Americans — or any minority group — is disturbing and dated. Insensitive racial representation inspires calls for publishers to drop authors. They disappear from high-school or college syllabi. This bodes ominously for the afterlives of the titans of post-World War II American fiction, including John Updike, Saul Bellow Bellow and Norman Mailer, all three of whom have been accused of being racially insensitive and worse.
Roth’s marketability also seems to be sailing into a squall regarding gender. As women began demanding an accounting of sexual abuse and misogyny within the media, entertainment and other industries, numerous think-pieces wondered how the author of “Portnoy’s Complaint” — whose libidinous narrator identifies most of the women in his life by debasing nicknames — would fare in such an environment. Would he — should he — be “canceled”?
The question is more complex than his admirers and detractors make it out to be. No doubt, many of Roth’s male characters mistreated women. Accusations of Roth himself doing the same exist, but they are fairly rare, unsubstantiated and contested. The dilemma for researchers is that Roth was a deeply auto-fictional writer. You sense his presence in his stories — especially when protagonists share much of his biography, including Nathan Zuckerman and Peter Tarnopol, and when characters are named “Philip Roth.”
It’s hard not to speculate about the relation between the author and the many misogynistic fellows who cut an erotic swath through his pages. There will, of course, be readers who give him the benefit of the doubt. They might observe that Roth’s toxic males provide evidence of women’s experiences that needs to be explored, not censored.
Not helping him cleanse his reputation were the numerous allegations of sexual misconduct leveled against his hand-picked biographer, Blake Bailey. The ructions engulfing Bailey came to dominate the discourse about Roth, leading to a peculiar cancellation by proxy.
The episode also revealed that Roth had instructed his estate to eventually destroy a massive trove of personal papers he entrusted to Bailey. This led Aimee Pozorski (co-editor of Philip Roth Studies), myself and 20 other Roth scholars to issue a statement reminding his executors that “scholarship can only be advanced when qualified researchers engage freely with essential sources.”
As if all these concerns weren’t enough, his grim prophecies about the demise of an audience for serious literature seem to be coming true. “The book,” Roth worried, “can’t compete with the screen.” Meanwhile, the English major is in a very bad way, and the institution of tenure is under siege. Professors (insufferable as we might be) teach the next generation who to read and how to read. Writers might not like them, but they need them.
Roth is also getting the scrutiny that he was at pains to avoid in his lifetime. His disregard for scholars who might be critical of him always struck me, one such scholar, as misguided. Instead, he surrounded himself with friends — friends who had preternatural access to major media platforms. These friends built upon his own interpretations of his own work. It doesn’t mean they lacked wisdom. It just means that when they talked about Roth, they talked about what Roth wanted them to talk about. To wit: Jewish Newark, his sundry interpretations of his life, his pesky ex-wives and lovers, the close-mindedness of his critics, and so forth.
I think, in this cultural moment, it’s prudent to confront Roth’s limitations head on and chart one’s own path through his fiction. I pitch him to my students as a writer with some racial, religious and sexual hang-ups — who among us is innocent of those charges? I also present him as a bearer of unique and meaningful insights. Let scholars (while they still exist) parade those insights into sunlight.
I’ve tried to illuminate that his fiction was preoccupied, for 50 years, by how individual and collective bodies (like the Jews) change. Transformation, metamorphosis, metempsychosis — his obsession with those themes, I’ve noticed in my classrooms, is shared by Gen Z. If the span between Roth@80 and Roth@90 has taught us anything, it is that Roth was right: Life is about radical, unpredictable flux. Now his own legacy is in flux. I wonder who will read Roth@100.
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Iran’s Leaders, Like Pharaoh, Won’t Budge Until They Pay a Real Price for Their Wickedness
A demonstrator lights a cigarette with fire from a burning picture of Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei outside the Iranian embassy during a rally in support of nationwide protests in Iran, in London, Britain, Jan. 12, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Toby Melville
There is a particular kind of self-destructive confidence that exists only at the very top of a brutal regime. It isn’t courage, and it certainly isn’t principle. It’s raw hubris, reinforced by a self-belief so detached from reality that objective facts become little more than a distraction.
Napoleon spent his final days as leader of France convinced that one more maneuver could reverse his fate, even as Europe closed in around him. And 130 years later, in a Berlin bunker, Hitler issued orders to imaginary divisions as the Third Reich disintegrated above his head.
If you’ve been watching events in Iran over the past couple of weeks, that same detached hubris has been on full display. As protests spread from city to city – sparked by economic collapse and rapidly morphing into thousands openly calling for regime change – the response from the Islamic Republic’s highest echelons has been depressingly familiar: extrajudicial killings, mass arrests, internet blackouts, and the ritual denunciation of protesters as “vandals,” “terrorists,” or foreign agents doing America and Israel’s bidding.
Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, who has conveniently hidden himself away from any public contact, insists that the Islamic Republic “will not back down.” President Masoud Pezeshkian has expressed sympathy for the economic pain endured by ordinary Iranians, even as he authorizes the brutal crackdown.
Protesters have been shot and killed, hospitals are overwhelmed with casualties, and the death toll – including police and government workers – continues to climb, all while the leadership doubles down, as though sheer refusal to yield can still bend reality to its will.
It’s horrifying. But it’s also strangely predictable. Authoritarian regimes rarely collapse because they recognize their mistakes; they collapse when the protective bubble around their leaders finally bursts. Until that moment, what passes for strength is not power at all, but blindness — an inability to see the wood for the trees.
By the time you read this, the Iranian regime may have fallen, or it may have clawed its way through yet another crisis. Either way, the pattern is unmistakable, and the writing is on the wall: systems built on fear and insulation eventually join their predecessors in the dustbin of history.
Religious narrative often prefigures political reality. Which brings us to Pharaoh, the antihero of the opening chapters of the Book of Exodus. We first encounter him in Parshat Shemot as a brutal dictator, imposing unbearable suffering on the Hebrews through enslavement, persecution, and ultimately genocide.
By the time we reach Parshat Va’era, the stakes have escalated dramatically. Pharaoh refuses to relent to Moses’ demands to free the Hebrews, and Egypt is struck by a cascade of calamities: its water supply is contaminated, frogs overrun homes, lice infest the land, and so it goes on.
Life in Egypt grinds to a halt. The economy is crippled, normal existence becomes impossible, and yet, despite all this, Pharaoh barely flinches.
The Torah tells us that Pharaoh’s heart is hardened — first through his own stubbornness, and eventually by God, who gives him the strength to resist pressure to alleviate the suffering of his people.
But that explanation only deepens the puzzle. Why is Pharaoh so immune to the devastation unfolding around him? Why doesn’t he learn? Why doesn’t he adjust? Why does each plague simply provoke the next act of defiance?
The easy answer is that Pharaoh is wicked. But that answer isn’t very satisfying. Wicked people can still be pragmatic, and history offers plenty of examples of evil tyrants who knew when to retreat. Pharaoh doesn’t — and the reason is subtle but crucial.
Like so many brutal rulers across history, Pharaoh never truly experiences the consequences of his stubbornness personally. His advisers plead, the people suffer, the nation groans — but Pharaoh himself remains untouched. Power has wrapped him in cotton wool. He is insulated from reality, and it is precisely that insulation that allows him to harden his heart.
The Torah is teaching us something uncomfortable here. The most dangerous leaders are not the ideologues or the fanatics, but those who never pay a price for being wrong. When suffering is always outsourced – to citizens, soldiers, or convenient scapegoats – there is no internal mechanism that forces change.
And that is exactly what we are seeing in Iran. The clerical elite and the Revolutionary Guard leadership are not standing in breadlines. Their children are not dodging bullets in the streets. Their electricity has not been cut, their access to water remains secure, their wealth is intact, and their personal safety is guaranteed. The pain is being borne entirely by others – and so, like Pharaoh, they respond to an existential crisis not with reform or retreat, but by doubling down on repression and violence.
There is a tragic irony here, borne out by countless historical examples – from the time of Pharaoh through the four millennia that have followed. The more violence a regime unleashes, the clearer it becomes that it has run out of ideas.
Brutality against the people a government claims to represent and protect is not strength – it is the language of exhaustion. When leaders can no longer persuade, they intimidate. When they can no longer inspire fear, they escalate it instead.
It is precisely this dynamic that plays out in ancient Egypt. Each plague strips away another illusion of control, but instead of adapting, Pharaoh tightens his grip. He banishes Moses – the one person capable of ending Egypt’s day-to-day nightmare – and in doing so inflicts wave after wave of suffering on his own people.
The Torah does not portray Pharaoh as a strategic mastermind undone by clever tactics. It portrays him as a man trapped by his own power, unable to imagine a world in which he is not obeyed.
That, ultimately, is why the plagues have to escalate. Only when Pharaoh’s firstborn son dies in Parshat Bo – and Pharaoh, himself a firstborn, suddenly fears for his own life – does he finally relent, and even then, only briefly.
Hubris returns almost immediately. He pursues the Hebrews in a last, futile attempt to destroy them or drag them back into slavery, and his army is annihilated at the Red Sea. The Midrash leaves Pharaoh alive, the sole survivor, condemned to live on as a witness to the ruin he brought upon himself and his people.
History suggests that this pattern is remarkably consistent. Regimes that respond to dissent with ever harsher measures, deaf to the realities unfolding around them, are not demonstrating strength but buying time – and borrowed time always runs out.
Whether Iran’s current uprising ends tomorrow, next month, or further down the road is impossible to know. What is clear is that we have seen this story before, not only in modern history, but in the Torah itself.
Pharaoh’s story reminds us that hearts hardened by power rarely soften while there is still a chance to escape the deluge. Change is imposed when consequences can no longer be deflected, and when a system built on fear finally collapses under the weight of its own cruelty.
Pharaoh learned that lesson too late. History has been relearning it ever since.
The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.
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‘All Time Is Unredeemable’: A Core Message for Israel
Smoke billows following missile attack from Iran on Israel, at Tel Aviv, Israel, June 13, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Gideon Markowicz ISRAEL
“If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable.” — T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton
Behind the current noise about Iran, Hamas, America, Russia, Turkey, Qatar, etc., are much deeper conceptual issues. Accordingly, whatever the tangible facts of its strategic and tactical challenges, Israel will need to approach all potentially existential calculations at a conceptual level. In this connection, nothing could prove more important than variously contradictory ideas of time.
Precisely, what are the relevant contradictions? Though Israel lives according to “clock time,” its jihadi adversaries (both state and sub-state terror groups) regard all mechanistic chronologies as a theological profanation. It follows, inter alia, that pertinent conceptual differences on time could have major policy implications for the Jewish state’s management of war and terror.
All this will sound excruciatingly theoretic. Nonetheless, a clarifying bifurcation could be crucial to Israel’s survival. Israel’s jihadi enemies believe in “sacred time,” not “clock time,” a core belief that encourages “martyrdom operations.”
Plausibly, “over time,” these discrepant concepts of temporality and chronology could enlarge risks of a major war, including a nuclear war. To wit, even before Israel would have to face any operational nuclear adversaries, Jerusalem could find itself caught up in an “asymmetrical nuclear war.” The fact that only Israel could employ nuclear ordnance during such a conflict does not mean that Israel would necessarily avoid significant military harms.
There is more. At some point, a state enemy could become a “suicide bomber in macrocosm.” For Israel, no such force-magnification could ever be “acceptable.” Not to be minimized or overlooked in these sui generis calculations is that Israel is less than half the size of America’s Lake Michigan.
For Jerusalem, policy-relevant issues should always be framed in legal and military terms. Though generally unrecognized, Israel’s jihadi adversaries (a category that now includes reconfiguring terror groups in Syria, Lebanon, Yemen, Iraq, Qatar, and other places) define true victory as “power over death.” For these recalcitrant foes, becoming a “martyr” (a shahid) represents “power over time.” Prima facie, there could be no comparable or greater form of power.
Because “clocks slay time” — a famous observation by American writer William Faulkner — narrowly objective chronologies would prove injurious for Israel. But what should constitute a suitably personalized and policy-centered theory of time for decision-makers in Jerusalem? It’s a demanding but imperative question.
In purposeful reply, history deserves pride of place. By ironic coincidence, the complex notion of temporality as “felt time” or “subjective time” has its origins in ancient Israel. By rejecting time as a linear progression, early Hebrews generally approached the issue as a matter of qualitative experience. Among other things, the associated view identified time as logically inseparable from its personally infused content.
In terms of prospective nuclear threats from adversaries, Israeli planners should consider temporality at the level of individual decision-makers. For example, “What do authoritative enemy leaders think about time in shaping their operational military plans?” For Israeli leaders, there could be no more urgent question.
There is more. From its beginnings, the Jewish prophetic vision was one of an imperiled community living “in time.” Within this formative vision, political geography or “space” was vitally important, but not because of territoriality.
The importance of specific geographic spaces stemmed from certain unique events that had presumably taken place therein. Eventually, a subjective metaphysics of time, a reality based not on equally numbered moments but on “time as lived,” could impact ways in which (1) jihadi enemies choose to confront the Jewish state; and (2) Israeli decision-makers choose to confront these enemies.
In the final analysis, a worst case for Israel would be to face an already nuclear and seemingly irrational enemy state. Any such adversary could reasonably be described as a “suicide bomber in macrocosm.” Simultaneously, Jerusalem could need to deal with a “suicide bomber in microcosm,” i.e., an individual “flesh-and-blood” jihadi terrorist armed with crude or “small” nuclear weapons. In further elaboration, a radiological weapon or radiation dispersal device should come to mind.
What else should Israel know about time? Among Islamists at every level, “martyrdom” is accepted as the most honorable way to soar above clock time or “profane time.” Looked at from a dispassionate perspective, this “heroic suicide” is accepted by jihadists as the optimal way to justify mass murder of “unbelievers.” Ironically, because such alleged self-sacrifice is expected to confer “power over death,” it does not properly qualify as a suicide. In law, it is always an inexcusable homicide.
It’s time for conclusions. From the standpoint of Israel’s most urgent survival concerns, the time-sensitive adversary could be an individual jihadi terrorist, a sovereign enemy state, or both acting together. In the third scenario, the effects of a state-terrorist fusion could be not merely interactive, but also synergistic. This would mean that a “whole” injury inflicted upon Israel would be greater than the sum of its “parts.” The dangers to Israel of any such unprecedented synergy would be most catastrophic if the pertinent enemy state was nuclear or soon-to-be nuclear.
Sometimes, the strategist can learn from the poet. For T.S. Eliot, “all time is unredeemable.” With this unchallengeable insight in mind, an immediate goal for Israel’s defense policy planners should be a fuller awareness of jihadi capabilities and intentions “in time.” Such a deliberately enhanced understanding could ultimately prove crucial to both counterterrorism and nuclear war-avoidance.
Prof. Louis René Beres was educated at Princeton (Ph.D., 1971) and is the author of many books and scholarly articles dealing with international law, nuclear strategy, nuclear war, and terrorism. In Israel, Prof. Beres was Chair of Project Daniel (PM Sharon). His 12th and latest book is Surviving Amid Chaos: Israel’s Nuclear Strategy (Rowman & Littlefield, 2016; 2nd ed., 2018).
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The exceptional actress in the Yiddish film ‘I Have Sinned’
איינער פֿון די פֿילמען וואָס מע ווײַזט די וואָך ווי אַ טייל פֿונעם ניו־יאָרקער ייִדישן קינאָ־פֿעסטיוואַל איז דער פּרעכטיקער ייִדישער פֿילם ,,על חטא“.
דער פֿילם, וואָס איז געמאַכט געוואָרן אין פּוילן אין 1936, איז געווען אַ וויכטיקע דערגרייכונג אין דער געשיכטע פֿון ייִדישן קינאָ. ער איז געווען דער ערשטער ייִדישער פֿילם מיט קלאַנג און דיאַלאָג, און האָט אויך געשילדערט אַ גאָר מאָדערנע טעמע.
איך האָב אַליין געזען דעם פֿילם אויפֿן מעלבורנער „דשיף“ אינטערנאַציאָנאַלן פֿילם־פֿעסטיוואַל אין אָקטאָבער 2025, און ער האָט אויף מיר געמאַכט אַ שטאַרקן אײַנדרוק. עס שילדערט נישט בלויז דאָס ייִדישע לעבן אין שטעטל, די ראָלע פֿון רעליגיע אין טאָג-טעגלעכן לעבן, די מנהגים און די שוועריקייטן פֿון די שטעטל־ייִדן, נאָר אויך ווי פּראָגרעסיוו און בראַוו איז געווען דער אויסבליק פֿון די שרײַבער און אָנטיילנעמער אין ייִדישן טעאַטער און פֿילם אין יענער צײַט.
דער רעזשיסאָר, אַלעקסאַנדער מאַרטען, און די שפּילער האָבן נישט מורא געהאַט אָפֿענערהייט צו באַטראַכטן אַ טעמע וואָס איז דעמאָלט געווען פֿאַרבאָטן. דער פֿילם דערציילט ווי אסתּר, אַ יונגע טאָכטער פֿונעם שטעטל רבֿ, פֿאַרשוואַנגערט מיט אַן אָפֿיציר פֿון אַרמיי. דער פֿילם באַשרײַבט אירע שוועריקייטן און קאָנפֿליקטן אַלס אַ נישט־חתונה געהאַטע, וואָס זי באַשליסט צו טאָן און וואָס געשעט ווײַטער. די באַרימטע קאָמיקער דזשיגאַן און שומאַכער שפּילן דאָ הױפּט־ראָלעס. מיר זײַנען צוגעװוּינט צו זען דזשיגאַן און שומאַכער אין סלעפּסטיק און קאָמישע שטיק. דאָ אָבער זעען מיר אַ טיפֿערן אויסטײַטש אין זייער אויסשפּילונג — קאָמעדיע געמישט מיט דראַמע און איידלקייט.
די הױפּט־ראָלע פֿון אסתּר שפּילט די אויסגעצייכנטע אַקטריסע רחל האָלצער. דאָ באַװײַזט זי מיט האַרץ און געפֿיל, פֿאַרװאָס זי איז געװאָרן אַ װעלט־באַרימטע ייִדישע אַקטריסע. איר אויסטײַטש איז פּרעכטיק און רירנדיק. עס איז װערט קוקן דעם פֿילם פּשוט צו זען און אָנערקענען איר ראָלע.
רחל האָלצער איז געװען אַ הױפּט־שפּילער און רעזשיסאָר אינעם נאַציאָנאַלן פּױלישן טעאַטער, און אויך אין דער װילנער טרופּע. אין „על חטא“ איז זי שוין געווען אין די יונגע דרײַסיקער, נאָר זי שפּילט דאָ סײַ די ראָלע פֿון אסתּר ווי אַ יונג מײדל, סײַ אסתּר ווי אַן עלטערע פֿרױ. אין 1939, דרײַ יאָר נאָך דעם וואָס „על־חטא“ איז אַרױס, איז רחל געװען מיט איר מאַן, דעם באַקאַנטן דראַמאַטורג חיים ראָזענשטיין, אין מעלבורן ווי טייל פֿון אַ װעלט־טור. זײ זײַנען געקומען כּדי צו שטעלן איר סאָלאָ־פּיעסע, װען עס איז אױסגעבראָכן די צװײטע װעלט־מלחמה, און זײ האָבן נישט געקענט זיך אומקערן קײן פּױלן. אַ דאַנק זייער זײַן אין אויסטראַליע זענען זײ געראַטעװעט געוואָרן פֿון דעם חורבן, און זײַנען ביז זייער טױט געבליבן אין מעלבורן.
אין אױסטראַליע איז רחל האָלצער אויפֿגעטראָטן אױף די גרעסטע בינעס מיט גרויסן דערפֿאָלג. אין 1940 האָט זי, צוזאַמען מיט יעקבֿ װײַסליץ, געשאַפֿן דעם „דוד הערמאַן טעאַטער“ אין מעלבורן וואָס איז געבליבן אַקטיוו מער ווי פֿערציק יאָר. זי האָט אױך ווײַטער געשפּילט אין סאָלאָ־פֿאָרשטעלונגען. זעקס טויזנט מענטשן האָבן זי למשל געהערט רעציטירן יעווגעני יעווטאָשענקאָס ליד „באַבי־יאַר“ אינעם מעלבורנער שטאָטזאַל. צווישן זיי: יעווטאָשענקאָ אַליין. די וועלכע האָבן עס געזען און געהערט האָבן געזאָגט אַז עס איז געווען, ווי אַלע אירע פֿאָרשטעלונגען, אומפֿאַרגעסלעך.
איך האָב נישט געקענט רחל האָלצערן ווי אַ יונגע אַטקריסע, און געדענק זי נאָר אַלס אַן עלטערע פֿרױ. אָבער זי האָט קײנמאָל נישט פֿאַרלױרן איר עלעגאַנץ, איר שײנקײט. זי איז געװען די מלכּה פֿון דער ייִדישער טעאַטער און איז געבליבן אַ מלכּה, אַפֿילו אין אירע נײַנציקער, ווען איך האָב זי באַזוכט אין אַ מושבֿ-זקנים.
איך האָב אויך געהאַט אַ פּערזענלעכן שײַכות צו רחל האָלצער. איר מאַן, חיים ראָזענשטיין, איז געװען דער ברודער פֿון מײַן באָבעס מאַן, מאָטל ראָזענשטיין. נישט געקוקט אויף דעם װאָס חיים און מאָטל זײַנען בײדע געשטאָרבן איידער איך בין נאָך געווען אויף דער וועלט, האָב איך געװוּסט אַז זי איז אַ װײַטע קרובֿה, און איך פֿלעג זי זען אינעם ייִדישן קולטור־קלוב אין מעלבורן, „קדימה“, אָדער בײַ מײַנע עלטערן. און אַוודאי אויך אויף דער בינע.
ווען איך בין געווען דרײַצן יאָר אַלט האָב איך געהאַט אַ ספּעציעלע איבערלעבונג מיט איר. מיר זײַנען ביידע געווען אין „קדימה“, אינעם גרױסן זאַל װוּ מע האָט אָפֿט געשפּילט ייִדישן טעאַטער. איך האָב רעציטירט אַ דראַמאַטישע פּאָעמע אויף דער בינע. נאָך דער פֿאָרשטעלונג איז רחל האָלצער צוגעקומען צו מיר, מיך אָנגעכאַפּט בײַ דער האַנט, און מיט אַ שמײכל פֿון נחת געזאָגט: „דו ביסט מײַן משפּחה, דו ביסט מײַן משפּחה!“ אַזאַ כּבֿוד פֿון דער קעניגין פֿון ייִדישן טעאַטער האָב איך נישט דערװאַרט! איך האָב דעמאָלט נישט פֿאַרשטאַנען די גרױסע מתּנה װאָס זי האָט מיר געגעבן מיט די װערטער. איך וועל דאָס קײנמאָל נישט פֿאַרגעסן.
דער גרױסער זאַל און די בינע זענען הײַנט אַן אַלגעמיינער קינאָ־הויז. װען איך האָב אין נאָוועמבער דאָרט געקוקט דעם פֿילם „על חטא“, בין איך געזעסן ממש נאָר אַ פּאָר רײען פֿונעם אָרט, וווּ רחל האָלצער האָט אַמאָל גענומען מײַן האַנט און מיך אַזוי וואַרעם באַגריסט.
פֿאַר די פֿון אײַך וואָס וועלן דעם זונטיק זען „על חטא“ אויפֿן ניו־יאָרקער ייִדישן קינאָ־פֿעסטיוואַל, װעט איר האָבן אַ געלעגנהײט אַליין צו זען רחל האָלצערס וווּנדערלעכן טאַלאַנט ווי אַן אַקטריסע. דאָס אַליין איז ווערט דאָס גאַנצע געלט.
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