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Jacob Adler (1855-1926) was not just a lion of the Yiddish theater, he was acclaimed as one of the great actors of his time. His exuberant memoirAfirst published in a Yiddish newspaper between 1916 and 1925, and now translated into English for the first time by his granddaughterAtells the extraordinary saga of a restless individualist who, as an actor, director and producer, left an indelible mark on his native Odessa, then on London (where he moved in 1883), and finally on New York's Lower East Side, where he helped make Yiddish theater a bracing, realist antidote to Broadway's superficialities. Illustrated with marvelous photographs, these reminiscences are peppered with real-life encounters worthy of the plays in which Adler acted. He survived three pogroms; in one, rioters smashed his house and stole the family's nest egg. His three wives were all actresses; in her touching introduction, Stella AdlerAlegendary acting teacher and Group Theater founding memberApays homage to her father and her mother, renowned tragedienne Sara Adler (his third wife). A wild, dissipated young man, Adler saved himself through immersion in the theater. Interwoven with Rosenfeld's illuminating commentary, Adler's performances fairly leap off the page: as a proud Shylock in Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice; as Uriel d'Acosta, Jewish champion of free thought and Spinoza's teacher. Adler's portrayal of a capricious old fiddler in Zelig Itzik will resonate with fans of Fiddler on the Roof. This memorable document offers a heady plunge into the golden age of Yiddish theater, a living force that survived poverty, persecution and exile

With the spring of 1877 came the moment when I stood at the threshold of a life in the theater. Yes, fatal -- for there is seldom a way back. The actor does not swim with the stream. He burns his bridges, parts with family and friends, enters a world of gypsies, vagabonds, people of questionable morality. A certain fear surrounds him, as though he had joined a secret order. This has not altogether changed even today. Imagine, then, how strong it was some 40 years ago.

We got together with the folksingers one day in a tavern, and the man who brought Yiddish theater to Russia from Romania, Yisrol Rosenberg began trying them out, teaching them the songs and explaining the stage business. But the coarse appearance of the players, their beards, their bedraggled clothing, kept interfering with his inspiration. "Devil take it, it's no good!" he broke out. "You look like chimney sweeps, not actors! I need human beings. Do you understand? Go and make yourselves into human beings!"

And he began to make them into human beings. Beards, mustaches fell to the ground in snips. Off came the short coats, the low hats, the deep boots. With his magic wand and his last few groschen, Rosenberg worked a transformation. In frock coats with narrow trousers, high silk hats, white shirts and black flowing ties, the folksingers looked like Englishmen, Frenchmen or, better still, the upper-class Romanians who were now Rosenberg's ideal.

And so, before the comedy on the stage, we had a comedy of our own. We are now living in another time, another world. It is hard today to understand how the heart of a simple Jew wept to part with his beard. It was painful to see them come together again. Shaven Jews! Chins, cheeks, mouths, never seen before! They laughed, but their laughter was hollow, hysterical, more like the squealing of a chicken being slaughtered. Each one joked bitterly at the other, each looking miserably at his reflection in the tavern mirror and feeling unhappily with his hands for the beard that no longer existed.

I laughed at them. I had no beard, and my little mustaches were only recent citizens on my face. I thought I looked well.

The folksingers had never been afraid before, but this was no cellar performance, but a real theater on a real stage. I laughed at their fears, but when I remembered that I myself would have to face an audience, my heart pounded. Suppose I lost my courage, became too frightened to say my lines? Suppose my parents came? Suppose my uncle came! He was the richest man in our family, but it was not in his wealth that his importance lay. He was a real Mohican, the patriarch, magnate and ruler of us all.

I breathed freely only when I learned I would take no part in the first performance. God be thanked; I would not be on the stage, but in the audience!

Our first performance was to take place in Akiva's restaurant on Rivnoya Street, and the day came when we gathered there for our first rehearsal. We were all in a holiday mood, full of hope. Not only the actors were present in full force, but also the podradchike, businessmen who had all been in Romania and couldn't wait to see a little Yiddish theater. Rosenberg was too full of joy. He felt his moment had come, and in my eyes he grew that day.

It was a summery June morning, and a whole crowd of girls, women, and children gathered at the open window, laughing and applauding. Everyone asked for a song, a dance.

"Domnelli, gospoda!" said Rosenberg. "Gentlemen! We are no wine cellar entertainers, no folksingers and clowns. You will have to pay money to see us. We are actors -- artists!" He began an excited speech about the triumphs of the Yiddish theater in Romania. The high commissioner of the Russian army had come! The king and queen of Romania had come! He began reeling off names. Annetta Schwartz. Madame Sophia Goldstein, the beauty of the world. Moishe Teich. The great comedian, Laizer Zuckerman. (All the podradchike had spoken of Zuckerman, and I was curious to see him.) Last of all he spoke of Siegmund Mogulesko, whom he described as handsome, young, a great singer, a marvelous dancer, and a genius.

Rosenberg concluded his speech at the window by saying, "Yes, the actors in Romania were great, but they will never be as great as we. And therefore we will create a theater for the Jews of Russia -- right here in Odessa!"

A storm of applause at the open window. The podradchike bought tickets on the spot at five and 10 rubles apiece. Rosenberg was actively engaged in shoving the shower of rubles into his pockets. But it would be wrong to say he cared only for the money. From happiness he became good to the whole world. He told the chorus to give the onlookers the song from "Breindele Cossack," he himself did the scene as Yankev the Drunk, and then he told Jacob Spivakovsky to give the monologue from "Recruits."

Joyous bravos at the open window. Impossible to describe the enthusiasm of both onlookers and invited guests. The podradchike ordered tables to be brought in; they were set with food and wine, and everyone ate, drank, sang, danced, kissed, embraced.

But in the midst of this celebration the door was flung open, and a policeman entered, measuring us all with his eyes.

"Chto sobranye?" he demanded, looking us all over. "What's going on here?"

We were all frightened to death. Rosenberg, always a coward in these situations, whispered, "Adler -- well?" Since I am the great official it was up to me to smooth this over.

I saw something had to be done so that the Yiddish theater would not die in the belly of its mother before it was born. I explained to the officers that we were actors, come together to rehearse a play that would be given on these premises.

He was writing every word I said in a notebook, and things looked bad. We were silent as he left. But he did not leave alone. Akiva went with him. He came back, a broad smile on his lips. Money had changed hands. All was well again.

With this incident the onlookers at the window had melted away like a flock of frightened birds. Soon the guests, too, took their departure, and only the actors remained.

Now Rosenberg showed himself in a new light, that of the good benevolent boss. Holding high his new rubles he called out, "Who needs money to make the Sabbath?"

Who needed? Everyone needed! And Rosenberg gave to each according to his need. "Was it the truth?" he exclaimed, radiant with happiness. "They gave us money before they even saw us! That's theater!"

Source: Jacob Adler:A Life on the Stage,

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