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Ukrainian Jewish life has always taken place in Russian. Now a race to translate is underway.
LVIV, Ukraine (JTA) – The rabbis sat around a breakfast table, discussing Russia’s war on the country where they work in a mixture of Yiddish, Hebrew and Russian. They named their hometowns as Lugansk, Lvov and Dnepr, the Russian names for Ukrainian cities that have vaulted into international headlines since Russia invaded Ukraine in February.
Although they were focused on Ukraine’s progress in the fighting, the rabbis uttered not a single word in Ukrainian. How could they? Like the vast majority of Jews in Ukraine, none of them speaks the country’s official language.
Russian has long been the first language for a wide swath of Ukrainians, including the majority of the country’s Jews. But after the Russian invasion, many Ukrainians decided they wanted to speak less Russian and more Ukrainian. Many Jews, similarly horrified by the sight of thousands of Russian soldiers pouring over Ukraine’s borders and wishing to demonstrate their Ukrainian bonafides, have made the same choice — even as it means disrupting a long linguistic tradition.
So when the rabbis’ successors meet for pancakes and sour cream, they will be far more likely to introduce themselves as the rabbis of Luhansk, Lviv and Dnipro, the Ukrainian names for their hometowns that have become the standard in English. They will also likely be able to hand their students and congregants Ukrainian-language versions of central Jewish texts that simply do not exist now.
“Many of my friends say that they are embarrassed to use Russian as a language. They say that we are Ukrainian Jews, and that Russia is a terrorist country fighting us and that we shouldn’t use their language,” said Rabbi Meir Stambler, from Dnipro. “Others say that [Russian president Vladimir] Putin doesn’t own the Russian language. It is an issue.”
He added, “This is something that people are discussing all the time.”
A decade ago, half of Ukrainians said they spoke Russian as their native language. That number has declined to 20%, fueled in part by resentment over Russia’s aggressions in Crimea, a contested region that it annexed by force in 2014. But Jews have remained predominantly Russian-speaking, even in parts of western Ukraine where Ukrainian has long been the dominant language. (Russian and Ukrainian are related linguistically, but their speakers cannot understand each other.)
Russia’s war on Ukraine has Ukrainian Jews playing catchup. Stambler, who heads the Federation of Jewish Communities, a body affiliated with the Hasidic Chabad-Lubavitch movement that operates a network of 36 synagogues around Ukraine, offers a stark prediction: “Within 10 years, every Jew in Ukraine will speak Ukrainian.”
The dominance of Russian among Ukraine’s Jews, who numbered in the tens of thousands before the war, has deep roots.
“The historical trajectory of Jews in what is now Ukraine led them in the 19th century to adopt Russian rather than Ukrainian,” says historian Natan Meir, a professor of Judaic studies at Portland State University. “That was because Ukrainian was perceived as a peasant language that did not have any high culture associated with it, and because there were no economic advantages to adopting Ukrainian at the time.”
Now, the upside of switching to Ukrainian — demonstrating a national allegiance during a time of war — couldn’t be clearer.
“Jews feel quite integrated into Ukrainian society, but a shift, even if it is a gradual shift, to Ukrainian is going to make that more tangible than ever,” Meir said, calling the Russian invasion “absolutely game-changing” for Ukrainian Jews. “They will be perceived even more strongly than they have been as being wholly Ukrainian and part of the fabric of Ukrainian society.”
Most Ukrainian Jews, especially those educated since the collapse of the Soviet Union, can now speak some Ukrainian. But their ability often depends on where they grew up: Many Jews in traditionally Russophone cities such as Odesa, Dnipro or Kharkiv can struggle with the language, while their grandparents often cannot speak it at all.
Books in both Hebrew and Russian sit on a bookshelf at Medzhybizh. (Jacob Judah)
“Not more than 20% were Ukrainian-speaking at home,” says Stambler. “Take President [Volodymyr] Zelensky. He knew Ukrainian, but he didn’t speak it at home, and he had to polish it up when he became president.”
It will not be simple for the Jewish community to suddenly switch to Ukrainian, the most widely spoken European language without a standardized translation of the Torah.
Two years ago, a team of translators working in Israel, Austria and Hungary began working to produce Ukrainian-language Jewish texts. But before the Russian invasion, the effort had so far produced only a Ukrainian book of psalms, or tehillim.
In May, two months into the war, a decision was made to accelerate work on a daily prayer book. A Torah could follow.
“The chumash is difficult,” said Stambler, who oversees the half-dozen-strong team of translators from his base in Dnipro, using the Hebrew word for the printed form of the Torah. “We are working on it.”
While translating sacred texts can take years, other changes have come faster. The leaflets, brochures and calendars that are a fixture at any Jewish center in Ukraine were quickly swapped out Russian for Ukrainian, at least at the federation’s headquarters. Before February, these had often been produced and printed by Russian Jewish communities and shared with those in Ukraine, for simplicity’s sake.
“This differentiation from Russian Jewry is going to be huge,” said Meir, the historian. “Up until this point they have essentially formed one linguistic and cultural space that all Jews, whether they were in Ukraine, Russia or Belarus could move freely between.”
Now, the ties between those communities are both logistically complicated to maintain — trade routes have been ruptured — and also potentially a liability at a time when anyone in either Russia or Ukraine showing an affinity for the other country can face suspicion or penalties.
“This shift, if it actually happens, is going to be marking out a totally new cultural space for Ukrainian Jews and almost a declaration of independence,” Meir said “Or at least that is the aspiration, because there is so much of their heritage which is still based in the Russian language that it is going to be a long time before they can fully separate.”
That separation process, which began to take shape most clearly after 2014, has quickened. “We started doing things ourselves,” said Stambler. “We used to do about 20% in Ukrainian for the Jews in western towns like Lviv, Ivano-Frankivsk and Uzhhorod, but we are making a much stronger push now.”
He estimates that some 75% of material being distributed to Ukrainian Jewish communities by the Federation of Jewish Communities was in Ukrainian by September, up from 20% to 35% in January.
Young rabbis who come from the United States or Israel to serve small Jewish communities across Ukraine now say that they have had to add Ukrainian alongside their Russian classes.
“I began with Russian,” said one of those rabbis who works in Vinnitsya, until he decided over the summer that he had to learn Ukrainian. “I realized that I had to learn Ukrainian because I needed it on the street. I needed it to speak with the government and with the media.”
Signs in a synagogue in Ukraine are written in both Ukrainian and Russian. (Jacob Judah)
Some Ukrainian Jews are voting with their voices.
“My whole life, I spoke only Russian,” said Olha Peresunko, who before the war lived in Mikolaiv in southern Ukraine. “But after the 24th of February I am speaking only Ukrainian.”
Peresunko was speaking outside a Lviv synagogue this fall, where she and other refugees were waiting for food parcels. She had fled Mikolaiv, which has sustained repeated assault by Russian troops, for Lviv with her mother and two children while her husband is on the frontlines.
Her children are finding it hard to adjust to the exclusive Ukrainian environment in Lviv, but she is confident that they will make the shift. “They will speak Ukrainian as their first language,” Peresunko said.
Exactly how much the shift to Ukrainian will change local Jewish communities is a matter of debate. Rabbi Shalom Gopin, who fled to Kyiv in 2014 from his home community in Luhansk, an overwhelmingly Russophone city seized by Russia-backed separatists at that time, said he, too, believes that Ukrainian will displace Russian as the lingua franca of Ukrainian Jewry.
A Ukrainian woman displays her Ukrainian-language Jewish calendar as a source of pride, September 2022. (Jacob Judah)
“They are starting to slowly speak Ukrainian,” he said. “It is no problem. There are lots of Jews in America who speak English. We live here, and we speak the languages of the places that we live. It is normal.”
But Gopin said the linguistic shift “means nothing” amid other issues facing Jews in Ukraine, where Russia’s war is threatening to undo 30 years of Jewish community building, largely though not exclusively led by Chabad, Gopin’s Orthodox movement.
“The problem for the Jews of Ukraine is not language,” he said. “It is about how much they are going to synagogue, or how many children are going to Jewish schools, not about what they are speaking.”
Natalia Kozachuk, 45, a Jewish businesswoman in Lviv, sees only upside to shedding Russian, her native language. She has started to speak to her children only in Ukrainian.
“It will be hugely positive if Jews speak more Ukrainian,” Kozachuk said. This is the only way that Jews can truly “learn more about the Ukrainian people,” she said, “about their history and the positive qualities and strengths of Ukraine.”
“Only good can come of it,” she added. “We will understand each other better.”
—
The post Ukrainian Jewish life has always taken place in Russian. Now a race to translate is underway. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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A town in the Alps that rescued Jews from the Nazis
Read the original Yiddish article here.
During a trip to the French Alps this year, I discovered a village with a fascinating Jewish history.
Saint-Martin-Vésubie sprawls across a mountain in southern France near the Italian border, its slopes dotted with colorful houses. A river runs through the center of town, lined with pine trees and ripening grapes.
On my first day there, the town’s tour guide, Anne Sivirine, told us that for a year during World War II, Saint-Martin-Vésubie actually served as a city of refuge for more than 1,200 Jews.
Among those refugees were Jews from Germany, Poland, Holland and Belgium, who had escaped to the zone libre, the French term referring to the territory in southern France, which, during the first two years of the war, was not yet occupied by the Nazis. My grandmother Feyge and her family had tried to flee Belgium for southern France, but due to various circumstances, didn’t manage and remained in the Belgian city of Antwerp.
In November 1942, the Nazis entered the zone libre, while their allies, the Italians, occupied the southeast region of France. Although the Italians administered their own “race laws,” the Jews in Italy, and for a while in southern France, weren’t in danger, and that was no small thing towards the end of 1942, when most Jews in Europe had already been murdered by the Germans.
Thanks to the efforts of Angelo Donati, an Italian Jew living in Nice at the time, the Italians agreed to establish a center for Jewish refugees in Saint-Martin-Vésubie where they could live a relatively normal life. Although prior to the war, only one Jewish family — the Levin-Drisdos — lived there, it soon became a fully Jewish shtetl.
At the beginning of 1943, in the middle of the war, Jews learned, prayed, worked, founded youth and sports organizations, and even married. The French residents, for the most part, were friendly to the Jews, and many provided food and other means of support. Such kindness towards Jewish refugees was rare then.
Those halcyon days ended in September when the Italians surrendered. The Germans occupied Italy, and within a few days — Saint-Martin-Vésubie too. When the Jews heard the news, local residents helped them escape to the mountains, where they aimed to sneak over the border into Italy. The days were cold and rainy, and the exodus from Saint-Martin-Vésubie became immeasurably difficult. (Even I, a tourist during peacetime, found climbing those hills very difficult.)
In Italy, hundreds of Jews found hiding places, but the Germans caught many of them. They, and those Jews who stayed in the village, especially the elderly and children, were deported to Drancy, the detention center near Paris, and from there to Auschwitz.
Even then, dozens of Jews remained in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, and local people continued to hide them. Not everyone in the village lent a hand, but most of them knew what was going on and kept silent. Only one Jew was actually handed over to the authorities: Gregoire Dridso, the patriarch of the Levin-Dridso family, who had lived there before the war began.
Years later, Yad VaShem designated 10 of the locals as Righteous Gentiles.
If you’ve never heard of this heroic, humble village, you aren’t alone. Even in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, the events of World War II weren’t publicly mentioned for years.
The reason for the silence was a practical one, Sivirine explained. “There were those who helped the Jews, and those who collaborated with the Nazis, and everyone needed to live together after the war. But one day a young woman overheard the old folks talking about ‘the hidden Jews’, and that opened up a Pandora’s box.”
Since then, the residents of Saint-Martin-Vésubie openly acknowledge what their town did to save the Jews. Aside from the main memorial in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, the village now has three others: one for the Jews who perished; a second one in honor of the Righteous Gentiles, and a third that describes how the townspeople risked their lives to help the Jews under the Nazis.
Since Saint-Martin-Vésubie began sharing this chapter of its history, several books have been published on the subject. The town itself released a book in French, called The Jews and the Righteous Ones of Saint-Martin-Vésubie. Later, historian Susan Ziccotti penned a book in English, Holocaust Odysseys: The Jews of Saint-Martin-Vésubie and their Flight through France and Italy. There were also three novels inspired by this chapter in the town’s history, including Wandering Star by French Nobel laureate writer J. M. G. Le Clézio.
Saint-Martin-Vésubie takes pride in something else, too. The town’s main church has a wooden statue of the Madonna that dates back to the Middle Ages, and is revered by its residents. Each year the townspeople carry it in a procession into the mountains, believing that the statue was created there.
About 10 years ago, the residents of Saint-Martin-Vésubie established a new tradition: Each year on Sept. 3, in memory of the Jews who escaped to the mountains, they march to the mountain pass at the border with Italy. There, at a marker honoring the Jews, they memorialize those who died and those who survived, thanks to the Saint-Martin-Vésubie residents at the time. Occasionally, the children or grandchildren of the rescued Jews participate.
In Italian and in French, the inscription says: “Through this mountain pass, in September 1943, hundreds of Jews from all over Europe passed through, seeking ways to save themselves from antisemitic predators.”
Then, movingly, the text adopts a different tone: “You, who’ve arrived here as a free person, need to remember that this is what could happen when equal rights aren’t extended to all.”
The post A town in the Alps that rescued Jews from the Nazis appeared first on The Forward.
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Trump may endorse Netanyahu. But loving Israel is not the same as loving Bibi.
President Donald Trump has raised the possibility of endorsing a candidate in Israel’s Oct. 27 election.
“I may be doing something,” he said when asked about it this week.
He did not say whom he might support, although his history with Benjamin Netanyahu makes the prime minister seemingly the likely possibility. I am here to urge him to think again, because the distinction between supporting Netanyahu and supporting Israel is no longer possible to ignore.
Trump is remarkably popular in Israel, where many believe he genuinely loves their country and its people. His recognition of Jerusalem as Israel’s capital, his support for Israeli security, his willingness to go to war against Iran and his manifest indifference to the global Palestinian propaganda machine have persuaded many that he is personally invested in Israel’s future. Netanyahu has turned that into a political asset, encouraging the impression that his personal relationship with Trump is the reason.
And it works. Some Israelis see Netanyahu more favorably because they believe Trump does. An endorsement would matter, and so would its absence. On March 25, 2019, Trump recognized Israeli sovereignty over the Golan Heights, two weeks before an Israeli election. Widely interpreted as a political gift, it reinforced Netanyahu’s claim that he alone could deliver extraordinary concessions from Washington. It helped Netanyahu cling to power (barely), and he returned the favor, all-but-directly endorsing Trump’s reelection a year later.
In principle, American presidents should stay out of other democracies’ elections. But such niceties, alas, belong to another era. Trump has interfered openly in elections in Hungary and Poland, attempting to elevate local right-wing populists. Expecting diplomatic restraint now is absurd. So a better question is simply whether he can be pried loose of Netanyahu, for the sake of Israel.
The election could hardly be more crucial. I believe it will determine whether Israel remains a prosperous, functioning democracy or continues down a path of institutional deterioration, international isolation and economic decline.
Netanyahu’s supporters credit him with confronting Iran’s Islamic Republic regime, Hezbollah and Hamas. But he has eliminated none of them, and his record includes the catastrophic security failure of Oct. 7, years of political polarization, attempts to weaken judicial independence and a coalition elevating some of the country’s most extreme political forces.
Netanyahu remains on trial for corruption, charges he denies. Critics point also to extravagant public spending associated with his personal lifestyle. The larger indictment, however, is not personal: his dependence on narrow coalition interests has made essential national reforms virtually impossible.
Any Netanyahu-led coalition – unless the opposition joins him – would depend again on far-right parties insisting on settlement activity deep in the West Bank – an issue causing considerable agitation in the United States — and protecting Jewish radicals who terrorize Palestinians there. That already led to deaths and risks sparking a third Palestinian intifada, according to Israel security officials. Trump, who prides himself on supposedly having ended eight wars, cannot be very happy with that.
No less consequential is Netanyahu’s dependence on ultra-Orthodox, or Haredi, parties.
Israel has long tolerated an arrangement under which the vast majority of Haredi men avoid military service, while many receive state support for religious study and emerge from schools that do not teach the mathematics, English and science required for a modern economy. This is unsustainable in a country whose security depends on a heavily burdened military and whose prosperity depends on a highly educated workforce.
The demographic implications are staggering. Haredim already constitute roughly one-sixth of Israel’s population, and their share is projected to grow dramatically, with birthrates approaching six children per family and sustained heavily by welfare. Unless employment, education and military-service patterns change, a shrinking proportion of Israelis will shoulder an ever-growing share of the tax burden, military service and economic productivity.
Even during three years of war – as other Israeli reservists served hundreds of days a year in Gaza and Lebanon – Haredi youth demonstrated with signs declaring: “We’d rather die than serve.” Outrage over this arrangement is boiling over across Israel and badly hurting Netanyahu, who is far behind in the polls.
Netanyahu cannot seriously reform the system because his survival depends on Haredi parties that make military exemptions, religious-school funding and sectarian privileges conditions of coalition participation.
The explosive growth of this community, absent reforms, will turn Israel into a hyper-religious country, risking the departure of the educated, modern and secular classes that account, overwhelmingly, for its prosperity. Internationally mobile, many are already disillusioned by the country’s political direction, repeated military service and an ever-heavier economic burden. It is a national emergency.
Israel must restore confidence in democratic institutions, address the consequences of the Gaza war, confront violent extremism in the West Bank, repair international relationships and establish a sustainable regional strategy. Another Netanyahu government would deepen the crisis in all of them.
Trump, if he loves Israel, cannot possibly love this direction of travel. His son-in-law Jared Kushner most assuredly would not.
There is a serious alternative. Gadi Eisenkot, a former chief of staff of the Israel Defense Forces, has emerged as a leading opposition figure. He lost his son Gal in combat in Gaza in December 2023 and has a reputation for personal integrity, seriousness and directness. His party is called Yashar, meaning straight or upright, a pointed contrast with the political culture of Netanyahu’s rule.
Sure, replacing Netanyahu would not automatically solve Israel’s problems. But an opposition government not dependent on Haredi parties could introduce universal service obligations, require a genuine core curriculum in publicly funded schools, restructure subsidies and redirect resources toward education, infrastructure and economic participation.
There is a chance that Netanyahu’s opponents may win more seats collectively without a comfortable governing majority. A narrow coalition could depend on parties with conflicting positions; Arab parties are legitimate democratic participants, but agreement on security and national policy would be challenging.
A Trump assist that enables Bibi to cut into his opponents’ lead would make that scenario more likely and diminish the chances for a more stable majority that could act decisively to save the country.
Trump likes to point to everything he has done for Israel: Jerusalem, the Golan Heights, the Abraham Accords and regional diplomacy. Many Israelis appreciate those achievements. But the country’s greatest danger may lie not only in the enemies surrounding it, but in the structural weaknesses accumulating within.
The question is whether Trump can distinguish the country’s long-term interests from the fortunes of a man he has repeatedly supported.
And there is one more thing. Trump likes winners. So much so that he once impugned Sen. John McCain’s Vietnam-era record of heroics, by actually saying: “I like people that weren’t captured.” Well, Netanyahu is so far behind in the polls, and with such overpoweringly good reason, that he is looking like a loser.
Continued association will not help the brand.
The post Trump may endorse Netanyahu. But loving Israel is not the same as loving Bibi. appeared first on The Forward.
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‘Sefer Elijah’ — probably the oldest proto-Ashkenazi text
ס׳איז מעגלעך, אַז מיר האָט זיך אײַנגעגעבן צו אַנטדעקן דעם עלטסטן פּראָטאָ־אַשכּנזישן טעקסט, אָנגעשריבן אינעם פֿריִיִקן 9טן יאָרהונדערט. דאָס איז דער אוראַלטער אַפּאָקאַליפּטישער מדרש „ספֿר אליהו‟, אַ ספֿר וואָס איז מיר שוין לאַנג גוט באַקאַנט.
געשען איז עס אַזוי: ווען איך בין ערשט אָנגעקומען קיין אַמעריקע אין 1998 — אין וויליאַמסבורג — האָב איך זיך אַ דריי געטאָן אין די אָרטיקע ביכער־קראָמען און געקויפֿט די גאָר אינטערעסאַנטע מדרש־זאַמלונג „ילקוט הרועים‟, באַגלייט מיט גלענצנדיקע הסכּמות (רבנישע באַשטעטיקונגען), אַז דער ספֿר איז אָנגענומען ווי אַ הייליקער, אַרײַנגערעכנט אַ רעקאָמענדאַציע פֿון דעם דעמאָלטיקן סאַטמאַרער רבין משה טייטלבוים זצ״ל.
די זאַמלונג באַשטייט על־פּי־רובֿ פֿון טיפֿע קבלה־טעקסטן און עטלעכע אַפּאָקאַליפּטישע מדרשים וועגן דעם קץ־הימים — דעם סוף פֿון די טעג, די צײַט וואָס משיח דאַרף קומען — בתוכם דעם „ספֿר אליהו‟. אָט דער ספֿר און נאָך עטלעכע אין דער דאָזיקער זאַמלונג שילדערן די ביאת־המשיח נישט ווי אַ פּלוצעמדיקן גליקלעכן סוף פֿון אַלע ליידן אין דער וועלט, נאָר ווי אַ שרעקלעכן פּראָצעס, באַגלייט מיט חורבֿות און שוידערס. נישט נאָר בײַ די קריסטן איז פֿאַראַן אַזאַ מין ליטעראַטור. בקיצור, שטייט אינעם „ספֿר אליהו‟ געשריבן, אַז ווען משיח וועט קומען, וועט ער צונויפֿברענגען אַלע צדיקים — בסך־הכּל 30 טויזנט — אין אַ הימליש אָרט ווײַט פֿון אונדזער ערד, וועלכע וועט פֿאַרברענט ווערן מיט אַלע אירע איבעריקע זינדיקע תּושבֿים.
די אמונה, אַז דער נײַער משיחישער צוקונפֿטיקער ירושלים וועט אַראָפּקומען פֿונעם הימל און אַז די שטאָט האָט ווייניק צו טאָן מיט דער הײַנטיקער ירשולים, איז אַמאָל געווען אַבסאָלוט נאָרמאַל בײַ ייִדן, בפֿרט אין דער אַשכּנזישער וועלט. רש״י האָט, למשל, אויך אַזוי געגלייבט. אין דער שפּעטערדיקער צײַט האָט הרבֿ צבֿי־הירש קײַדאַנאָווער, דער מחבר פֿונעם פּאָפּולערן מוסר־ספֿר „קבֿ הישר‟, וועלכן ער האָט אַליין איבערגעזעצט פֿון לשון־קודש אויף ייִדיש, אַזוי געשריבן אינעם פֿריִיִקן 18טן יאָרהונדערט.
דער „ספֿר אליהו‟ בלײַבט כּמעט אומגעפֿאָרשט. הלל ניומאַן, אַ היסטאָריקער פֿונעם חיפֿהר אוניווערסיטעט, האָט באַמערקט, אַז דער דאָזיקער מדרש קלינגט ענלעך אויף דער קריסטלעכער אַפּאָקאַליפּטישער ליטעראַטור. עטלעכע אַנדערע פֿאָרשער האַלטן, אַז ס׳איז אָנגעשריבן געוואָרן בײַם אָנהייב פֿון דער איסלאַמישער תּקופֿה. לאָמיר זיך אָבער אַרײַנקוקן אין געוויסע פּרטים, וואָס די פֿאָרשער האָבן פֿאַרקוקט — און וואָס איך האָב אַליין ערשט באַמערקט נישט לאַנג צוריק.
אין אַ סך מדרשים ווערט דערמאָנט דער אַנטי־משיח מיטן נאָמען אַרמילוס. אין „ספֿר אליהו‟ ווערט אָבער זײַן נאָמען אויסגעלייגט ווי „הרמלת‟. ווײַזט אויס, אַז בײַ דעם מחבר האָט אַ תוו געקלונגען ווי אַ סמך, און דער הא איז בײַ אים געווען שטום. דעם נאָמען פֿונעם פּערסישן מלך אַרתּחשסתּא שרײַבט ער אויך ווי „הרתּחשסתּא‟. עס ווערט דערמאָנט עפּעס אַ ים־מאָנסטער — „גיגית‟; ווײַזט אויס, מיינט עס gigas אויף לאַטײַניש, אַ ריז. אַזאַ אַרויסרייד האָט געקאָנט נאָר זײַן בײַ פּראָטאָ־אַשכּנזים, וועלכע האָבן גערעדט אויף אַלט־פֿראַנצויזיש (צי, מעגלעך, אויף עפּעס אַ געמישטן דיאַלעקט, וווּ קיין הא־קלאַנג איז נישט געווען).
אינעם דאָזיקן מדרש שטייט געשריבן, אין געוויסע ווערסיעס, אַז די מלחמות פֿאַר דער ביאת־המשיח וועלן אָנהייבן די מלכים קוסטנטנוס און קרטילוס. אַזוי שטייט אין יהודה אבֿן־שמואלס (יהודה קויפֿמאַנס) זאַמלונג „מדרשי גאולה‟. אינעם חסידישן ספֿר, וואָס איך האָב, ווערט דערמאָנט נאָר „קירטלוס‟. ס׳איז קלאָר, מיין איך, אַז דאָ גייט די רייד וועגן דעם ביזאַנטישן מלך קאָנסטאַנטין דעם זעקסטן, מיט וועלכן קאַרל דער גרויסער האָט געוואָלט זיך מזווג זײַן, כּדי צו שאַפֿן אַ פֿאַראייניקט וועלט־מלכות, דורכן זיווג מיט קאָנסטאַנטיס מאַמע אירענע. קאָנסטאַנטינען האָט מען געשדכנט מיט קאַרלס טאָכטער ראָטרודע. אויב די דאָזיקע שידוכים וואָלטן געלונגען, וואָלט דעמאָלט אויפֿגעשטאַנען אַ נײַע גלאָבאַלע רוימישע אימפּעריע. קאַרל דער גרויסער האָט זיך אָבער סײַ־ווי־סײַ געהאַלטן פֿאַר אַ נײַעם רוימישן אימפּעראַטאָר. דער פּויפּסט לעאָן דער דריטער האָט אים געקרוינט מיט אַזאַ טיטל אין יאָר 800.
הגם קאַרל דער גרויסער האָט דערלויבט ייִדן צו וווינען אין זײַן קיניגרײַך און פֿאַרפֿלאַנצט דערמיט דאָס קערנדל פֿון דער אַשכּנזישער ציוויליזאַציע, ווערט אין אַ סך אַלטע מדרשים פֿאָרויסגעזאָגט, אַז די חבֿלי־המשיח, די צרות פֿאַר משיחס קומען, וועלן זײַן פֿאַרבונדן מיט רוים; דערפֿאַר האָבן ייִדן אויפֿגענומען זײַן אימפּעריע ווי אַ סימן פֿון אַפּאָקאַליפּטיש־משיחישע געשעענישן.
קאָנסטאַנטין דער זעקסטער איז געשטאָרבן בערך אין 805 (לויט אַנדערע קוואַלן אין 797) און קאַרל דער גרויסער — אין 814. באַקומט זיך, אַז דער „ספֿר־אליהו‟ מוז געהערן צו דער תּקופֿה, ווען זיי האָבן ביידע נאָך געלעבט.
וואָס עפּעס „קרטילוס‟? פֿאַרוואָס איז קאַרלס נאָמען אין אונדזער ספֿר אַזוי פֿאַרקריפּלט געוואָרן? ס׳קען זײַן, אַז אין זײַן אייגן לאַנד וואָלט געווען וויכטיק אויסצובאַהאַלטן זײַן נאָמען, די קריסטן זאָלן נישט וויסן, אַז בײַ ייִדן גייט אַרום אַזאַ געהיימער קלאַנג, אַז דער קיניג וועט מיט זײַנע מלחמות גורם זײַן די ייִדישע גאולה. מע קען זיך אַפֿילו משער זײַן, פֿאַרוואָס מע האָט אויסגענוצט אַזאַ שיפֿער: די אותיות טית און יוד קאָנען זײַן ראָשי־תּיבֿות פֿון זײַן טיטל imperator terrae.
ס’איז וויכטיק צוצוגעבן, אַז געוויסע קריסטלעכע שרײַבער האָבן געגלייבט, אַז קאַרל דער גרויסער וועט זיך אומקערן איידער יעזוס וועט זיך באַווײַזן צום צווייטן מאָל. אַזוי האָט געשריבן אינעם 11טן יאָרהונדערט דער מאָנאַך אַדעמאַר פֿון לימאָזש, פֿראַנקרײַך. אויב אַ טייל ייִדן האָבן געגלייבט אין עפּעס ענלעכס, וואָלט מען געקאָנט פֿאַרשרײַבן דעם „ספֿר אליהו‟ נאָכן טויט פֿון קאַרל דעם גרויסן.
ואַחרון אַחרון חבֿיבֿ, דער סטיל פֿונעם „ספֿר אליהו‟ איז וווּנדערלעך ענלעך אויף דער אַלט־בײַערישער אַפּאָקאַליפּטישער פּאָעמע Muspilli, פֿונעם 9טן יאָרהונדערט, וווּ דער הויפּטהעלד איז אויך אליהו הנבֿיא. עטלעכע שטיקלעך פֿון ביידע טעקסטן קלינגען כּמעט אידענטיש. ווײַזט אויס, אַז אונדזער מדרש געהערט טאַקע צו דער תּקופֿה פֿון קאַרל דעם גרויסן — צי, אפֿשר, מיט אַ דור־צוויי שפּעטער — ווען אַפּאָקאַליפּטישע געדאַנקען זענען געווען פֿאַרשפּרייט אויך בײַ די קריסטן.
דער אימאַזש, אַז דער אייבערשטער וועט אַוועקטראָגן די צדיקים אין עפּעס אַ הימלישער וועלט, ווען די גאַנצע ערד וועט ברענען, קלינגט ממש ווי דער גערמאַנישער מיטאָס וועגן דעם ראַגנאַריאָק, דעם סוף פֿון דער וועלט, אָפּגעשפּיגלט אויך אין Muspilli.
באַקומט זיך, אַז ייִדן אין דײַטשלאַנד האָבן נאָך מיט 1200 יאָר צוריק אַרויסגערעדט דעם תוו ווי „ס‟. צי האָבן אַ טייל פֿון זיי דעמאָלט שוין גערעדט אויף דײַטשיש, נישט אַלט־פֿראַנצויזיש? אין 838 האָט דער פֿראַנקישער גלח באָדאָ זיך מגייר געווען; זײַן ייִדישער נאָמען איז געווען אליעזר. ער האָט געדינט אינעם הויף פֿון קאַרלס זון לויִס דעם ערלעכן. ווײַזט אויס, אַז אַרום יענעם דײַטשיש־רעדנדיקן גלח איז שוין געווען בנימצא אַ גענוג גרויסע ייִדישע סבֿיבֿה, וועלכע האָט משפּיע געווען אויף זײַן באַשלוס צו ווערן אַ ייִד. אויף וועלכער שפּראַך זיי האָבן גערעדט, ווייסן מיר נישט גענוי, צום באַדויערן.
דער „ספֿר אליהו‟ איז, ווײַזט אויס, דער עלטסטער אָפּגעהיטער פּראָטאָ־אַשכּנזישער קוואַל. ביזן 11טן יאָרהונדערט איז אין ארץ־אַשכּנז בכלל נישט געווען באַקאַנט די גמרא. ווי מע זעט פֿון די אַשכּנזישע ספֿרים, אַז אַפֿילו שפּעטער זענען בײַ מיסטיש־געשטימטע דײַטשישע ייִדן געווען גאָר וויכטיק — אפֿשר, נאָך וויכטיקער ווי די גמרא — פֿאָלק־מעשׂיות, שפּרוכן און סגולות, וכּדומה. אַז זיי האָבן געשילדערט די ביאת־המשיח ווי אַ כּמו־קריסטלעך אַפּאָקאַליפּטיש געשעעניש, אויסגעמישט מיט אימאַזשן פֿון גערמאַנישער מיטאָלאָגיע, איז נישט קיין גרויסער חידוש. דער דײַטשישער פֿאָלקלאָר פֿאַרנעמט אַ גרויס אָרט אין דער אַלט־ייִדישער ליטעראַטור, ווי אויך, ווייניקער, אין ערנסטע ספֿרים. אַז אַזאַ קולטור־סינטעז האָט זיך שוין אָנגעהויבן אינעם 9טן יאָרהונדערט איז אָבער יאָ אַ חידוש.
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