Tevya in church

“A fiddler on the roof, sounds crazy no? But in our little village of Anatevka you might say that every one of us is a fiddler on the roof, trying to scratch out a pleasant simple tune without breaking his neck. It isn’t easy…”

A high school in Morris County was doing “Fiddler on the Roof,” and the drama teacher there wanted someone who could talk to each kid about his or her character in the play, answer questions about the time period and about Judaism in general.

She also wanted to make sure that her drama group didn’t do things that might be considered offensive or incorrect.

“I’ve got the perfect guy for you,” my friend Charles Pascarella (may he rest in peace) said. “Not only is he the consummate Tevye, he is also the cantor of his synagogue.”

You must be wondering why they didn’t ask one of their kids’ parents to answer those questions, or why they would ask an outsider to work with the kids. You might think that there weren’t many Jews in this high school, and you’d be correct — it was Morris Catholic High School.

There are Jewish kids in many of the Catholic high schools in New Jersey. It’s not my business why Jewish parents would send their kids to a Catholic high school, but it’s puzzling nonetheless. The questions remind me of a story my dad used to tell:

Morris Goldberg didn’t know what to do with his son Abie. He was a terror in school. He was thrown out of yeshiva after two days, public school after four days, prep school after three days, and military school after eight days. With no other options open Morris enrolled Abie in the local Catholic school.

A month went by and Morris got a call from the head of school to meet her there. It was a call he’d been expecting for weeks.

She was ecstatic. “Mr. Goldberg,” she said, “Abie is a model student. He gets straight As. I wish all our students were like him.”

Morris, perplexed, grabbed Abie by the ear and dragged him through the nearest doorway, which led into the church. “What’s this?,” he asked, “I sent you to every school under the sun and you were thrown out within a week, what’s so special about this place?”

Abie turned his dad around, pointed up at the crucifix, and said; “Are you kidding, Dad? I wouldn’t dare mess up here. In this place they mean business.”

I walked into the school and turned right into the principal’s office. A student was sitting there with the principal, and I half expected to hear: “Oy, Mandel, not you again. What did you do this time?”

A laugh escaped my lips as I quickly ducked out of the office. Oy? I doubt that would be the first utterance out of this particular principal’s mouth.

The drama teacher who was directing the play saw me and escorted me into a room filled with about 30 kids. I was as nervous about being there as they were having me, but we broke the ice very quickly.

I told them this story:

It was 1986. We were members of Congregation Oheb Shalom, a synagogue in South Orange, and its acting troupe, the Oheb Shalom Players, were putting on “Fiddler On The Roof.” “Go,” my wife said. “We’re new here, you’ll probably get a small role in the chorus, but you’ll get to meet a lot of really nice people.”

I auditioned and was given the role of Tevye; it was the first acting I’d done since I was 10 years old at camp.

Opening night, I pulled the curtain to take a peek at the audience as the fiddler climbed the ladder, getting ready for the opening melody. There were about 800 people in the audience. My face turned white and I looked at the director and said: “Karl, I can’t go out there.”

He laughed, but I headed to the back door. I was leaving.

The fiddler started playing, Karl grabbed the back of my pants, spun me around, pulled the curtain aside, and kicked me out onto the stage.

A friend told me that he’d never seen terror on anyone’s face like mine that night, and it wasn’t until I sang “If I Were a Rich Man” that I felt completely comfortable and in control. It was one of the most amazing moments of my life.

When they heard the story, the kids were hysterical, and questions came from all sides; even from the director.

“What’s it all about, the fiddler that’s up on the roof?” I asked them.

A bunch of hands went up (for some reason these kids didn’t blurt out questions or answers – maybe my dad’s joke isn’t really a joke) and their answers were great. Then they asked what I thought.

“The fiddler represents the precariousness of the lives of these people,” I said. “Each goes about his daily routine trying to make a living, while surrounded by many who want to hurt or even kill him, and all while trying to maintain the Jewish faith.’

The kids wanted to talk about their characters, motivation, and Jewish traditions. “What’s with the fringed garments?” they asked.

Tevye says: “… and always wear this little prayer shawl.… You may ask, how did these traditions get started? I’ll tell you…

[long pause] … I don’t know.”

“Well, I do know,” I said. “Anybody have a Bible? Take a look at Numbers 15:38 and Deuteronomy 22:12.” The kids had been taking copious notes on my analysis of the show, the culture, the characters and the traditions. This was no different.

We talked about arranged marriages. I turned to the girl playing Tevye’s oldest daughter, Tzeitel, and I asked: “What are you doing Saturday night?”

She didn’t move. “I mean it,” I said. “We could go grab a bite, see a movie, or just hang out and talk. What do you think?”

Her face grew beet red and she had a smile on her face that rivaled that of the Cheshire cat.

“So,” I asked,” do we have a date?” “No,” she said adamantly.

The place cracked up. (She did too.)

I looked crestfallen — but after a minute I looked up and smiled.

“Why would you want to go out with an old man like me?” I asked. “You are the same age as Tzeitel and I’m probably only a few years older than Lazar Wolf, and if a match had been made, that would be the relationship you’d be in.”

We talked about Jews having a personal relationship with God and that they didn’t use an intermediary to connect with God on a daily basis. That is why Tevye speaks with, talks to, and argues with God constantly.

We talked about the difference between being rich, which would allow us to study Bible and religious stuff all day, and having to work very hard every day to make a living. We talked and we talked, and two and a half hours just flew by.

It was rewarding beyond riches, and I felt very much like I do when I’m up on the bimah at Congregation Bnai Israel on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur.

There’s a spirituality that transcends the mundane, that lifts you onto a higher plane. The zone, so to speak. Working with this high school drama group lifted me right off the ground.

I called my wife, Shelly, to see if she wanted to grab a bite to eat. “You sound like you are walking on cloud nine,” she said. “It must have been incredible.”

It was, and I’m going back to work with them again when they call. It’s another calling, another way to give back, to feel that you are contributing, in a small way, to someone’s growth. It was glorious.

From the pen of William Shakespeare in Romeo and Juliet:

“…the more I give to thee, the more I have…”

As an addendum to this article, I’ve played the role of Tevye (a role I was born to play) in theaters from New England to Las Vegas, garnering kudos and awards along the way, and I would do it again and again, no matter my age.

Cantor/Rabbi Lenny Mandel of West Orange has been the chazzan at Congregation B’nai Israel in Emerson for the past quarter century.