“Who are you?” Sholem asked.
“Some will go to Warsaw. Some to America. Some… to the East.” The rabbi’s voice cracked. “But wherever we go, we carry Anatevka with us. Not the boards and nails. The melody.” fiddler on the roof -1971-
That evening, the village gathered in the synagogue. The rabbi, a wisp of a man with eyes like old coins, raised his hands. “We have been ordered to leave,” he said. “But we are not ordered to despair.” “Who are you
That morning, a notice was nailed to the post outside the constable’s hut. Sholem couldn’t read Russian, but his neighbor, Mendel the bookseller, translated with trembling lips: All Jews of Anatevka have three days to sell their homes and leave. The Crown requires the land for a new estate. Some… to the East