Deboned and Still in Shape

A fish is told to have a body before it becomes food. This sounds self-evident, almost too simple to mention, until the body disappears. Gefilte fish is particularly good at making us forget it. By the time the familiar oval portion reaches the plate, crowned perhaps with its rather optimistic coin of carrot, there is scarcely anything left to remind us that it once swam.

בײנלאָזינקע מײַן

פֿישל, פֿישעלע מײַן קלײַניקע ־
בײנלאָזינקע, בײנלאָזינטשיק מײַן,
װעמען ביסטו געװען אײדער מע האָט דיך
געריבן,

My Little Boneless One

Little fish, my tiny little fish —
my little boneless one, my boneless darling,
what were you before they
scraped you,

געהאַקט,
פֿאַרביסן אין שטיקלעך פֿון פֿלײש,
אָן בײנער, אָן געשטאַלט?
נאָך אײדער דו ביסט פֿאַרכאַפּט געװאָרן אין נעצן

chopped you,
bit you into pieces of flesh,
without bones, without shape?
Before you were ever caught in the nets

האָסטו געשװוּמען
צװישן רוסאַלקעס ־ פֿרײלעך, פֿרעך,
זײ האָבן געלאַכט: קלײַנער פֿיש, װער װעט דיך באַװײנען?
דו ביסט אַנטגליטשט פֿון זײערע פֿינגער

you swam
among rusalkas — merry, impudent;
they laughed: little fish, who will mourn you?
You slipped away from their fingers,

נאָר ניט װיסנדיק דײן מזל־גורלדיקע צוקונפֿט.
דער װאָדעניק, דער אַלטער שטרעק פֿון טײַכן־גרונט
האָט דיר געװוּנקען: ״בלײב, נאַרעלע, אין מײַן טונקל הױז״
דער רשת האָט דיך געכאַפּט אײדער דו האָסט געענטפֿערט

not knowing your fateful, fortune-laden future.
The vodyanik, the old bogeyman of the riverbed,
winked at you: “Stay, little fool, in my dark house.”
The net caught you before you could answer,

Gefilte fish is overwhelmingly associated with Ashkenazi Jewish life, but Ashkenazi life did not develop in a linguistic aquarium. It lived for centuries beside Slavic languages and dialects, borrowing, reshaping, joking and carrying sounds from one village or town to another. The rusalka and the vodyanik therefore do not enter the poem as decorative folklore. They belong to the waters through which this particular Yiddish imagination also travelled.

און דײַן שקורע, גלאַנציק נאָך
איז געװאָרפֿן געװאָרן אױפֿן ברעג.
נאָר אַ לעמקאָװדע , אַ ים־מײדל פֿון די בערג,
האָט דיר געגעבן ברױט־קרישקעס,

and your skin, still gleaming,
was thrown upon the shore.
Only a Lemko girl, a sea-maiden from the mountains,
gave you breadcrumbs,

ניט צו כאַפּן, נאָר װי אַ מתנה ־
און זי האָט געזוּנגען אַ לידל
אין אַ שפּראַך פֿון דעם געבערג־טומאַן
דו האָסט אײַנגעהערט: עס האָט גערירט דעם פֿישלקע־סטײַע.

not to catch you, but as a gift —
and she sang a little song
in a language of mountain mist.
You listened: it touched the little shoal of fish.

The Lemko girl complicates the geography further: a “sea-maiden” from mountains, feeding rather than catching the fish, singing in a language the poem does not need to identify. This is the borderland in miniature.

The affectionate beynlozinke – “little boneless one” – names the creature according to what has been removed from it. We recognize it by an absence.

This returns to an old question about the guf, the body. What survives when the body’s recognizable structure is taken away? Before blessing, livelihood, repentance or festive memory can be considered, there was skin still gleaming on the shore. There was a fish that swam.

The kitchen does not merely cook the fish. It dismantles it and gives it another body. Bones disappear, flesh is ground, onion and matzah flour enter, and becomes a small rounded mass. This is food preparation, certainly, but how much can be taken from a guf before we decide that the body is no longer there?

פֿאַרבײַטונג קוּמט פֿאָר אום יום־טוב
קײַן בײן בלײַבט כנראה ניט, גענומען כּשר פֿון פֿלײַש
בשעת מען האָט די סעודה, אפֿשר אַ פּשוטער װעטשרע ־
אָט אַלע בײנער אַװעק ־ אײדער מען האָט אָנגעצינדט די נרות.

Transformation comes about on the feast day;
apparently not a bone remains, the kosher flesh taken apart,
while the festive meal is prepared, perhaps merely a simple supper –
there, all the bones are gone – before the candles have been lit.

דו שלימזלטשיק מײַן, געהאַקט, געקנאַקט אין דער פֿרי,
װי אַזױ װעסטו איבערלעבן?
דו ביסט שױן געמאָלן ־ דײַן געשטאַלט איז געװאָרן אַ קנײדל,
דײַן נשמה ־ אַ סוד.

My little unlucky one, chopped and cracked in the morning,
how will you survive?
You are already ground – your shape has become a dumpling,
your soul – a secret.

This is not an argument against eating fish, nor a pious accusation against the kitchen. It is the smaller and more troublesome question of what human beings learn not to notice.

אָט פֿיש מערן זיך אָן צאָל, אַ סימן פֿון ברכה,
אָדער?
מען װינטשט זיך מזל און קינדער און פּרנסה ־
נו, דו ביסט שױן געמישט מיט ציבעלע

Now fish multiply beyond number, a sign of blessing,
or is it?
People wish one another luck and children and livelihood —
well, you are already mixed with onion

און מצה־מעל װי קענסטו נאָך זיך מערן, דגעלע־זיסעלע?
דאָס אױג פֿון בײנלאָזינקע איז שטענדיק פּראַל־אָפֿן ־ זאָגט מען,
קײן שלאָף, קײן רו, קײן צומאַכן די װיעס ־
װען װעסטו רוען, דו געפֿילטשישל?

and matzes-mel (flour): how can you still multiply, sweet little fish?
The eye of the little boneless one is always wide open – so they say,
no sleep, no rest, no closing of the eyelids –
when will you rest, little gefilte one?

אױף אַ טעלער? אָן קײן מנוחה, שױן געריכט?
אַ מטבע פֿון גזר ליגט אױף דײַן ענד־צלם
סימן פֿון גליק, גאָלד, גראָשן, אַ קרױן ־
כתיבה וחתימה טובה ־ גוטע קסיװע און כאַסימע,

On a plate? With no repose, already a dish – already judged?
A coin of carrot lies upon your final image,
a sign of luck, gold, pennies, a crown –
Ketivah va-chatimah tovah – a good inscription and sealing;

צי אלץ איז מער װי אַ צירונג?
צי מערן ברענגען פּרנסה און גוטע בשורות?
פֿון דלות ביסטו געבױרן, סתּם נשקשה פֿון תּענוג ־
דו האָסט אַ מאָל באַקומען קראָטשעשקעס

is everything more than an ornament?
Do carrots bring livelihood and good tidings?
Out of poverty you were born, a mere little morsel of delight –
once you received little crumbs,

און האָסט געזעט מער מײַלער… און נאָך זולל־סבאס
און בסוף ביסטו געװאָרן אַ נס אין אָרעמער קוך.

and you have seen more mouths… and still more gluttons and drunkards,
and in the end you became a miracle in a poor kitchen.

Here blessing meets economics. Fish signify abundance; people ask for children, mazl and parnose. Yet this fish cannot multiply: it has become onion, flesh and flour. The carrot coin sitting on top is therefore allowed to remain slightly ridiculous. We ask for prosperity while placing an edible penny upon something born from thrift.

Perhaps the uncomfortable question is not whether the fish observes the mitzvot. It is whether we do – and whether observance still teaches us to see what is before us.

The little boneless fish now begins to travel. Gefilte fish followed Ashkenazi families through migrations, expulsions, poverty and wars. A food born partly from economy could become a portable fragment of home.

בײַנלאָזינקע סלאַדקעלע, דער אַקװאַריום איז דיר אַ גלות
אַ גלעזערנער פֿלאַש, טײַך צו טאָפּ, פֿון טאָפּ צו קרוג
פֿון קריגער צו װעלט ־ פֿון װעלט צו בײַכער:
דו ביסט געװאַנדערט װײַט־װײַט דורך שטראָמען

Little boneless sweetling, the aquarium is an exile for you,
a glass bottle: river to pot, from pot to jug,
from wars to world — from world to bellies.
You have wandered far, far through currents,

אָן פֿלאָסן, אָן שװימען, נאָר אונטערװעגס ־
ביז?
רחם, זאָגט מען, ציעט פֿון אַ טראַכט,
אַ װיגנדיקע ליבשאַפֿט מיט חן־חן און חנן,

without fins, without swimming, merely underway —
until?
Rechem, womb and mercy, they say, draws from a single thought,
a rocking love with grace upon grace and graciousness,

אַ מתּנה אָן װאָכנגעלט,
דערצײל, בײנלאָזינקע, װי האָסטו געפֿילט די װיגונג פֿון אַ רחם
מען האָט דיר געגנבֿעט דײַן ים־סבֿיבֿה… אַװעק.
אין צײַטן פֿון מלחמה ציטערן די בײַכער, ניט הונגעריק, מוראדיק,

a gift without weekly wages.
Tell me, little boneless one, how did you feel the rocking of a womb
when they stole your sea-surroundings from you… gone.
In times of war the bellies tremble, not hungry but afraid,

The movement from galus to rechem is deliberately strange. The Hebrew root ר־ח־ם holds the womb close to compassion, rachamim. The aquarium is transparent exile; the womb is enclosure that permits another beginning. Between them stands the fragile body.

At this point an Eastern Christian ear may hear another seasonal resonance. The Byzantine tradition is presently passing through the Dormition – falling asleep of the Mother of the Theotokos Sleep does not pretend that death receive the uncomplicated final word.

זײ קלאָפּן אין דער ברוסט אַרײַן ־
און דו, מערעלטשיק־פֿישעלע, פֿילסט אַ געלאטין־ציטער
צװישן טעלער און מאַגן
אַ ביסן פֿרײד, אַ שטילער מרד אין פֿינצטערניש.

they beat inward against the breast –
and you, little carrot-fish, feel a gelatinous trembling
between plate and stomach:
a bite of joy, a quiet rebellion in the darkness.

War changes the meaning of hunger. Bellies can tremble when they are full. A familiar dish then becomes neither luxury nor nostalgia alone. Eating together can be a minute assertion that ordinary human life has not entirely surrendered.

אָן רוקנבײן טאַנצטו אַ אומשדרהדיקן טאַנגאָ,
אָן בײנער, אָן גראַט, נאָר מיט אַ ביסל חן און חוצפּה ־
װער װעט ראַטעװען אונדזער געפֿילטע פֿיש?
צי׳ז דאָ אַ מלאך־הדג? נאָר אַ לפֿל, אַ גאָפּל, אַ נפֿלא.

Without a backbone you dance a spineless tango,
without bones, without fishbones, only a little grace and chutzpah –
who will save our gefilte fish?
Is there an angel-of-the-fish? Only a spoon, a fork, a wonder.

The final crossing is the most physical and perhaps the most absurd. Now there is nowhere left to go except into us. The human body becomes its last waterway.

די קשיא איז געװאָרן שלאַף און בלײַבט מאַכטיק.
געפֿילטעפֿישקע װערט אַן אורח אין אונדזער גומען,
געדרײט דורך צונג, פֿאַרביסן דורך די צײן ־
ער שװימט דורך די מעי גס,

The question has gone slack and remains powerful.
Little gefilte-fish becomes a guest upon our palate,
turned about by the tongue, bitten by the teeth –
it swims through the coarse intestines,

געשניטן און צעשטאָסן
דו שװימסט און דרײסט אַרום: אַנטקעגן מענטשלעכע אינגעװײד
אַנטקעגן נאַטור ־ דער דגעלע װערט תּיכּף אַ גאַסט בײַ אונדז
און בלײַבט דער ים־סרסר פֿון יום־טובֿדיקע עיבור־צײַטן ־

cut and crushed.
You swim and turn about: against human entrails,
against nature — the little fish at once becomes our guest
and remains the sea-broker of festive times of gestation –

ער גילט פֿאַר אַ חכם אין אַלע איבערגאַנגען.

it passes for a sage at every crossing.

The direction has been reversed. We thought that we were consuming the fish; grammatically, however, it continues to swim. Water has become the human interior.

The word ibur adds another disturbance. It can suggest pregnancy or gestation, but more broadly it allows something to be carried toward another condition. Nothing here cancels killing. The fish is dead. Yet death has not prevented matter, memory, blessing and language from continuing their journeys.

Gefilte fish is perhaps less a monument to an intact past than a lesson in transition. It emerged from scarcity, became festive food, travelled through galus (exile), survived wars, entered refrigerators and supermarkets.

That does not mean that everything survives. Bodies are killed. Languages disappear. Communities move away. Mitzvot can become gestures emptied of attention, while religious words can be pronounced without mercy toward the living creature or human being standing nearby. Neither Selichot nor Dormition permits us simply to sleep through that fact.

Yet on the plate remains the improbable little beynlozinke: no backbone, no fins, no original shape, a carrot coin on its head and no particular dignity left to defend.

And somehow it has crossed again.