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Lorraine Hansberry’s second play had a white Jewish protagonist. Oscar Isaac and Rachel Brosnahan are reviving it.
NEW YORK (JTA) — Sidney Brustein, Jewish Hamlet?
Anne Kauffman thinks so. She made the comparison in a phone interview about the play she’s directing — a buzzy production of Lorraine Hansberry’s “The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window” that opened on Monday at the Brooklyn Academy of Music starring Oscar Isaac and Rachel Brosnahan.
“One artistic director who was thinking of doing this [play] was like, ‘You know, it’s not like he’s Hamlet, but…’ And I thought, well, no, actually I think he is like Hamlet!” she said.
She added another take: “I feel like he’s Cary Grant meets Zero Mostel.”
Hansberry saw just two of her works produced on Broadway before her death from cancer at 34 in January 1965. Her first, “A Raisin in the Sun,” which follows a Black family dealing with housing discrimination in Chicago, is widely considered one of the most significant plays of the 20th century. The other, “The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window,” ran for a few months in the fall of 1964 until Hansberry’s death and has only been revived a handful of times since, all outside of New York.
Now, the star power of Isaac and Brosnahan is driving renewed interest in the play, which deals with weighty questions about political activism, self-fulfillment in a capitalist world, and racial and ethnic identity — including mid-century Jewish American identity.
The Brustein character, as Kauffman alluded to, is many things. A resident of Greenwich Village deeply embedded in that historic neighborhood’s 1960s activist and artistic circles, he is somewhat of a creative renaissance man. At the start of the play, his club of sorts (“it was not a nightclub” is a running joke) called “Walden Pond” has just shuttered and he has taken over an alternative newspaper. As the script reads, Brustein is an intellectual “in the truest sense of the word” but “does not wear glasses” — the latter description being a possible jab at his macho tendencies. Formerly an ardent leftist activist, he is now weary of the worth of activism and a bit of a nihilist. He’s in his late 30s and is a musician who often picks up a banjo.
Brustein is also a secular Jew, a fact that he telegraphs at certain key emotional and comedic moments. Others, from friends to his casually antisemitic sister-in-law, frequently reference his identity, too.
At the end of the play’s first half, for example, Brustein brings up the heroes of the Hanukkah story in talking about his existential angst — and his stomach ulcer. He has become belligerent to his wife Iris and to a local politician who wants Brustein’s paper’s endorsement.
“How does one confront the thousand nameless faceless vapors that are the evil of our time? Can a sword pierce it?” Sidney says. “One does not smite evil anymore: one holds one’s gut, thus — and takes a pill. Oh, but to take up the sword of the Maccabees again!”
Hansberry’s decision to center a white Jewish character surprised critics and fans alike in 1964 because many of them expected her to follow “A Raisin in the Sun” with further exploration of issues facing Black Americans, said Joi Gresham, the director of the Lorraine Hansberry Literary Trust.
“The major attack, both critically and on a popular basis, in regards to the play and to its central character was that Lorraine was out of her lane,” Gresham said. “That not only did she not know what she’s talking about, but that she had the nerve to even examine that subject matter.”
Hansberry’s closest collaborator was her former husband Robert Nemiroff, a Jewish New Yorker whom she had divorced in 1962 but maintained an artistic partnership with. Nemiroff was a bit Brustein-like in his pursuits: he edited books, produced and promoted Hansberry’s work, and even wrote songs (one of which made the couple enough money to allow Hansberry to focus on writing “A Raisin in the Sun”). But Gresham — who is Nemiroff’s stepdaughter through his second marriage, to professor Jewell Handy Gresham-Nemiroff — emphasized that his personality was nothing like Brustein’s. While Brustein is brash and mean to Iris, Nemiroff was undyingly supportive of Hansberry and her work, said Gresham, who lived with him and her mother at Nemiroff’s Croton-on-Hudson home — the one he had formerly shared for a time with Hansberry — from age 10 onward.
Instead, Gresham argued, the Brustein character was the result of Hansberry’s deep engagement with Jewish intellectual thought, in part influenced by her relationship with Nemiroff. The pair met at a protest and would bond over their passion for fighting for social justice, which included combating antisemitism. The night before their wedding, they protested the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, and they would remain highly involved in the wave of activism that blossomed into the Black-Jewish civil rights alliance.
“Bob and Lorraine met and built a life together at a place where there was a very strong Black-Jewish nexus. There was a very strong interplay and interaction,” Gresham said. “I think Lorraine was very influenced by Bob’s family, the Nemiroffs, who were very radical in their politics. And so there was a way in which she was introduced to the base of Jewish intellectualism and Jewish progressive politics, that she took to heart and she was very passionate about.”
Robert Nemiroff and Lorraine Hansberry were married from 1953-62. They are shown here in 1959. (Ben Martin/Getty Images)
Hansberry didn’t hesitate to criticize Jewish writers who said controversial things about Black Americans, either. When Norman Podhoretz wrote “My Negro Problem — And Ours,” an explosive 1963 article in Commentary magazine now widely seen as racist, Hansberry responded with a scathing rebuke. She also sparred with Norman Mailer, who once wrote an essay titled “The White Negro: Superficial Reflections on the Hipster.”
Gresham said Brustein’s nihilism represents what Hansberry saw in a range of Jewish and non-Jewish white writers, whom she hoped could be kickstarted back into activism. But Hansberry also nodded to the reasons why someone like Brustein could feel defeated in the early 1960s, a decade and a half after World War II.
“You mean diddle around with the little things since we can’t do anything about the big ones? Forget about the Holocaust and worry about — reforms in the traffic court or something?” Brustein says at one point in the play to a local politician running as a reformer.
Daniel Pollack-Pelzner, a Jewish scholar of literature who has written on Hansberry, said the resulting Brustein character is a very accurate depiction of a secular Jew at the time — both keenly attuned to prejudice in society and also lacking some understanding of the experience of being Black.
“I was just intoxicated that Hansberry could conjure that world, both so affectionately, but also so clear-sidedly that it seems like she can see the limitations of all of the characters’ perspectives,” he said. “But she also represents them with sympathy and humor.”
Kauffman, who also helmed a revival of the play in Chicago in 2016, is impressed with how “fully fledged” the Brustein character is.
“Who are the cultural icons who have sort of articulated the Jew in our culture in the last 50 years or 60 years, you know?” she said. “Brustein is not a caricature of a Woody Allen character, he’s not even ‘Curb your Enthusiasm’ or a Jerry Seinfeld character. He’s a fully drawn character.”
Isaac, who is of mainly Guatemalan and Cuban heritage, has played Jewish characters before, including a formerly Orthodox man in an Israeli director’s remake of the classic film “Scenes From a Marriage.” In the lead-up to this play, he has largely avoided getting caught in headlines focused on the “Jewface” debate, over whether non-Jewish actors should be allowed to play Jewish characters on stage and screen.
But when asked about the responsibility of playing a Jewish character in a New York Times interview, Isaac referenced the fact that he has some Jewish heritage on his father’s side.
“We could play that game: How Jewish are you?” he said to interviewer Alexis Soloski, who is Jewish. “It is part of my family, part of my life. I feel the responsibility to not feel like a phony. That’s the responsibility, to feel like I can say these things, do these things and feel like I’m doing it honestly and truthfully.”
When Kauffman directed a version of the play at the Goodman Theater in Chicago in 2016, her lead actor had “not a single drop of Jewish heritage…in his blood,” and she said she had to convey “what anger looks like” coming from a Jewish perspective. Working with Isaac has been different — instead of starting at a base of no knowledge, she has been pushing for more of an Ashkenazi sensibility than a Sephardic one.
“I believe that his heritage leans, I’m guessing, more towards Sephardic. And mine is pure Ashkenazi,” she said. “We sort of joke: ‘[The part] is a little bit more Ashkenazi than that, you know what I mean?’ Like, ‘the violence is actually turned towards yourself!’”
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The post Lorraine Hansberry’s second play had a white Jewish protagonist. Oscar Isaac and Rachel Brosnahan are reviving it. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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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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