The Thirty-Eight Dances Quiet Rounds
Jerusalem can be crossed without entering very much of it. People follow familiar streets, pass doors whose languages they cannot read, and know exactly where they belong. Sometimes a short journey changes that arrangement.
The thirty-eight minibus offers such journeys. Between the Old City, the Jewish Quarter and the streets towards King George, it carries people whose lives overlap without necessarily becoming acquainted.
A poem can enter this space in Yiddish. Its words already carry several neighborhoods within them. Hebrew expressions meet Germanic phrasing; a Slavic word enters wearing an Orthodox cassock. Nusakh can suggest the inherited manner of prayer, yikhes the weight of pedigree, while an ishur, an authorization, brings the vocabulary of contemporary administration aboard. Everyone arrives with a history. Everyone still has to find somewhere to sit.
The passengers need not agree about Jerusalem before travelling through it. A woman seeking a seat beside another woman can find one because a Christian passenger moves her belongings. Religious habits remain present in the practical arrangement of bodies.
Even this modest proximity has its limits. Around the Dormition, German-speaking residents and visitors follow other paths. The people observed there do not necessarily join this little circuit. A shared city contains many routes that scarcely intersect. The poem’s invitation extends to those who remain outside.
Outside, relations between communities can be marked by contempt and violence. The familiar spitting near Christian clergy along the Armenian streets is one expression of this hostility. Inside the thirty-eight, it does not occur. Through years of travelling in a cassock among these passengers, the experience has been one of quiet, familiarity and practical consideration. People make room, allow one another their habits, and help when help is needed. The Arab driver assisting a devout Jewish woman in labor belongs to this everyday world.
This is what I want to share on these days of Sukkot, of moadim lesimcha/מועדים לשמחה or gut’n moyed/גוטן מועד – Have a good intermediate festival day the poem follows: Jerusalem’s communities travelling knee to knee, with an ease that the surrounding streets do not always allow.
דער אַכט־און־דרײַסיקער טאַנצט רואיקע רונדן
The Thirty-Eight Dances Quiet Rounds
מיט אַכט־און־דרײסיק פֿאָרט זיך ירושלים אַרום,
מען זעט עס ניט קלאָר פֿון דרױסן,
מען דאַרף ערשט אַרײַנשטעלן אַ פֿוס,
און אַ מענטש רוקט זיך װי אַלע געסט.
On the thirty-eight, Jerusalem rides around itself,
you cannot see it clearly from outside;
first you have to put a foot inside,
and a person shifts along, like all the other guests.
אַרום די שעהען פֿאָרט דער מיניבוס
פֿון דער אַלטשטאָט, שער יפו, דעם קװאַרטל־הרובע היהודי,
און װאַנדערט ביז מלך־דזשאָרדזש ־ די מױערן פֿאַרגײן,
מזרח און מערב זיצן קני צו קני, דאָך באַקװעם.
Around the hours the minibus goes,
from the Old City, Jaffa Gate, the Jewish Quarter,
and wanders on to King George – the walls slip away;
East and West sit knee to knee, yet comfortably.
אַ פֿרױ זוכט אַ פּלאַץ בײַ אַ פֿרױ ־ אַ מאַן װאָלט געבליבן שטײן,
האַלט זיך אָן דער אײַזערנער שטאַנג, לאָזט אײַנעם דורכגײן,
אַ קריסטין רוקט איר טאָש אַװעק: אָט זעצט זיך דאָ, באַפֿרײַנטע,
עמעצער קוקט, זי װאַרט, גיך־פּשוט,
A woman seeks a place beside a woman – a man would stay standing,
holds the iron rail, lets someone pass:
a Christian woman moves her bag: here, sit down, my friend.
Someone looks, she waits, quick and simple…
דער זיץ באַשליסט ניט װער קומט פֿאַר אַ רגע.
יעדער שטײגט אַרײַן מיט זהות און רשות, מיט נוסח, אַן ״אישור״,
אַ הױף, אַ ישיבה, אַ קירכעלע קהילה, אַ בית־מדרש ־
מענטשן קומען אַרױס פֿון טירן מיט אַן אַלטן שלאָס,
the seat does not decide who comes for a moment.
Everyone boards with identity and permission, a prayer tradition, an “approval,”
a Hasidic court, a yeshiva, a little church community, a house of study –
people emerge through doors with an old lock;
דער מיניבוס האָט אַן אײַנגאַנג פֿאַר אַלע באַזונדערע שװעלן.
בײַ דער דאָרמיציון הערט מען הײמיש דײַטש רעדן,
פֿון דײַטשלאַנד, עסטרײַך, שװײץ ־ װײַבער אָן קאַפּוצעס,
אײניקע װױנען דאָ, אַנדערע קומען אױף אַ קורצער צײַט,
the minibus has one entrance for all the separate thresholds.
By the Dormition, familiar German voices can be heard,
from Germany, Austria, Switzerland – women without hoods.
Some live here, others come for a short stay;
זײ גײן זײערע װעגן, אינעם אַכט־און־דרײַסיקער פֿאָרן זײ ניט,
די קלײנקאַטערינקע פֿאָרט פֿאָרבײַ און בעט אַרײַן
מיט אַ פֿרײַעם ברוך־הבא, אױך װער עס בלײַבט דרױסן.
דער פּראָסטלײַט־מיניבוס קלײַבט ניט אױס קײן ייחוס
they go their own ways, they do not ride the thirty-eight.
The little barrel organ passes by and invites them in
with a freely offered welcome, even those who stay outside.
The ordinary people’s minibus does not select by pedigree
אין ירושלים, צװישן מזרח און מערב און צוריק, אַרום אַרום,
יעדער קלײַבט זיך אַלײן ־ אָדער כּמעט,
צי אַרײַנצושטײַגן אָדער ניט און קוקן ־ װאַרטנדיק אױף…
אױך אין מלחמה־טעג, אױף דער אַרמענישער רוטע צום רובע
in Jerusalem, between East and West and back, around and around;
each chooses for themselves, or almost
whether to board or not, and watch – waiting for…
Even in wartime, along the Armenian route towards the Quarter,
די שטימען בלײַבן נידעריק, מע לאָזט דעם צװײטן רוען,
דאָס שפּײַען אױף פּאָדריאַזניקעס קומט ניט אַרײַן אַהער
דאָ בלײַבט די אַװעקװאַרפֿונג דרױסן.
אױף אַ יום־טובֿדיקן טאָג זינגט אַ יונגע אַראַבישע קריסטין
voices remain low; people let one another be.
The spitting at cassocks does not enter,
Here, rejection stays outside.
On a festive day, a young Arab Christian woman sings
די סטיכירן אין איר לשון,
לײַכט אָנגעטאָן אין דער היץ,
דער ניגון לאָזט זיך ניט אַײַנהאַלטן ־ זי זינגט פֿרײלעך
און אַלע שװײַגן, הערן אפֿשר… ־ אומבאַמערקלעך.
the stichera in her own tongue,
lightly dressed in the heat;
the melody cannot be held back, she sings gladly,
and everyone is silent, listening perhaps…without a sign.
אַ פֿרומע ייִדישע פֿרױ האָט געפֿילט געבורטסװײען,
דער אַראַבישער שאָפֿער האָט איר געהאָלפֿן,
נאָענט און פֿאַרזאָרגט,
האָט ער זיך געפֿירט בחוש ברגע הזה
A devout Jewish woman felt the pains of labour;
the Arab driver helped her,
close beside her, attentive,
he acted by instinct in that very moment,
בשעת אַ נײַ לעבן האָט זיך געאײַלט מחוץ אַלע פֿאָרפּלאַן.
דער אַכט־און־דרײסיק פֿאָרט בײַ ביקור־חולים פֿאָרבײַ,
מע קען באַזוכן די קראַנקן, געבן אַ האַנט צו מענטשן און שטוב־חיות,
דער רכב טראָגט די זיצנדיקע, די שטײענדיקע האַלטן זיך אָן,
while a new life hurried beyond every timetable.
The thirty-eight goes past Bikur Holim;
one can visit the sick, lend a hand to people and their household animals.
The vehicle carries those seated; those standing hold on.
דער בוס מאַכט זײַן קרײַז ־ אַרום מלך־דזשאָרדזש, אַרום סבאַראָ,
ער דרײט אַרום־אַרום מיט אַלערלײַ טאַנצנדיקע שיכטן פֿון פּאַסאַזשירן.
דער מיניבוס באַװעגט זיך געװײנטלעך
אין טאָגטעגלעכער חול־המועדיקער רו און טובֿה.
The bus makes its circle: around King George, around Sbarro,
round and round it turns, with all manner of dancing layers of passengers.
The minibus moves along as usual,
in an everyday calm and kindness of the festival’s intermediate days.
The affectionate kleynkaterinke, the little barrel organ, gives the vehicle its circling music. Its passengers supply different registers. The young Arab Christian woman sings stichera, hymns of Byzantine worship, in Arabic. Her light clothing in the heat and her audible prayer belong to the same person. Those around her need not explain that combination. They let her sing. The poem cautiously adds “listening perhaps”: silence does not disclose everything taking place within another passenger.
Then labor begins. The Arab driver helps a devout Jewish woman. A new life presses beyond the timetable, and attention turns towards the person who needs it. Religious difference remains visible, but the immediate task is clear. Such an event deserves to be remembered with its ordinary details intact.
Bikur Holim brings the journey close to illness and the work of visiting. Its name also speaks the obligation to care for the sick. Farther along, the reference to Sbarro places a painful memory within the continuing movement of the city. Streets carry those going to work, those seeking help, and those for whom a familiar corner can never become entirely ordinary again.
The closing khol-hamoyed gives the journey its particular rhythm. During the intermediate days of the festival, errands and movement continue within a time set apart. The lid/ליד -poem extends that feeling into the daily ride: an interval in which people remain busy, distinct, sometimes burdened, yet capable of a little ease together.
There is room here for a kippot, yarmulkes of all sorts, cassocks, shopping bags, prayers sung sotto voce, and someone whose destination is unfathomable to the others. At the next stop, another foot reaches through the doorway. Someone moves a little. Welcome!
