Here in Cincinnati, we love our books. As a librarian, this makes Cincinnati a wonderful place to live and work. So I thought I’d talk a little about books in Yiddish. The standard word for book in Yiddish is “bukh” (plural “bíkher”). It appears in all the places you’d expect: “hántbukh” (handbook), “tógbukh” (diary), “búkhhandlung” or “bíkherkrom” (bookstore), “bíkhershank” (bookcase).
There are of course more specific kinds of books as well, many of them dealing with the kinds of literature Eastern European Jews loved to read. A “vítsnbukh” (jokebook) or a “fáblbukh” (book of fables) were always good for amusement. A “máysebukh” (story book or book of fairy-tales) was also a popular genre. One of Yiddish’s most “storied” books was the “Bóve-bukh” (“Bóve-máyse”), Elia Levita’s (1469-1549) Yiddish version of the chivalric tale of Bevis of Hampton—known in Italian as Buovo d’Antona and in Levita’s original title “Bovo d’Antona.” The name “bóve” (Buovo/Bevis) would eventually be folk-etymologically transmogrified over time to “bóbe” (grandmother), leaving us with a “bóbe-máyse” (old-wives’ tale).
As I said, “bukh” is the standard dictionary word for book, dry and neutral. The diminutive can offer a little contrast. “Bikhl” (plural “bíkhlekh”) can simply mean a little book, booklet, or pamphlet. But it is also the way one would refer to a book one enjoys, the dog-eared paperback, say, that one can never part with no matter how often one moves; or the tattered copy of “Goodnight Moon” (“A Gúte Nakht Levóne,” if you will) that survived the relentless multiyear onslaught of one’s children. That’s why, while one can say “kínderbukh” (children’s book), what one would actually say is “kínderbikhl.”
The other most common word for book is the Hebrew “séyfer” (plural, “sfórim”). More often than not this refers to a specifically religious book: for example, a “síder” (siddur) or a “mákhzer” (machzor) or a “khúmesh” (Pentateuch) or a “tílim” (Psalter) or a “béntsherl” (grace after meals), &c., would all be referred to as a “séyfer.” It can also refer, sensu lato, to any significant book. It stands to reason that this is the word that comes to deal with learning and appears in a variety of expressions. When one says “úfefenen a séyfer” (open up a book) it means to do research. A “yodéye séyfer” (literally, one who knows books) is a scholar. And “er ret vi fun a séyfer aróys” (literally, he reads as if out of a book) means he is well-spoken or articulate.
Switching gears, I’d like to share a poem by one of my favorites, the poet Leyb Naydus (1890-1918) whom I’ve spoken of in this column before. This poem, from his sequence “Intíme Nigúnim” (Intimate Melodies), describes his memory of his beloved grandmother, recollections saturated with books.
Itst, nokh der bóbes toyt, kum ikh oft in ir kámer,
fun váyte dóyres kumt mir antkégn a grus;
shtil bléter ikh di sfórim mitn altn ámsterdámer
ópgevélktn, libn, óysterlíshn dfus…
Now, after my grandmother’s death, I come often to her room,
And I’m greeted by the distant generations;
I softly leaf through the books [sfórim] with their old,
Faded, strange and lovely Amsterdam type…
For Naydus the books represent the voices of the past, a way to communicate with his grandmother who is now part of the chain of tradition she herself participated in. “Amsterdam type” refers to the typeface developed by the printing houses of Amsterdam, one of the largest producers of Hebrew books for Europe in the 17th and 18th centuries.
Ikh mish durkh di fargélbte bléter fun di gróbe sidúrim,
di bóbe flegt mit kavóne dávnen in zey.
do flegt vern áyngeshtílt ir hártsiker shtúrem,
un trern flegn faln in tfíle-véy…
I page through the yellowed leaves of the thick siddurs
My grandmother used to pray from with such fervor.
Her spirited storm would be stilled,
Tears falling in the pain of prayer.
Naydus’s act of turning the pages relives the emotional responses to the books he witnessed in his grandmother’s hands, one set of emotions mapping onto the other. One can envision the tear-stains he sees on the pages as he leafs through the book.
Alts benkt nokh der bóben itst — vi klor ikh derkén es! —
di erd — nokh íre pantófl; nokh ir shotn — di vant,
un di álte farlózene Tsénerénes — nokh ir líber, béynerdíker zkéynisher hant…
They long so for grandmother — how clearly I grasp it all! —
The floor for her slipper, for her shadow the wall,
And the old neglected Tsenerenes
For her beloved, bony, old-woman’s hand…
The “Tsenerene” was a 17th-century compendium by Jacob Ashkenazi of midrashic and homiletic material interpolated into a Yiddish version of the Bible. It became effectively the first Yiddish best-seller, appearing in hundreds of printings down to today. Though referred to as the women’s Bible, it was far more than that, becoming engrained in the pattern of folklife, routinely read aloud from at home on Sabbath afternoons. This work lying neglected and abandoned offers an elegy for a culture that’s supposed to love its books, an elegy voiced by a loving grandson mourning his loss.
As always, “léyent gezúnterhéyt” — read it in good health.
Please send Yiddish questions to: yiddishcolumn@americanisraelite.com