We can learn a great deal about Aaron Zeitlin’s Monolog in Pleynem Yidish מאָנאָלאָג אין פּלעינעם יידיש just from the title. Immediately, the title informs readers that this monologue is in Yiddish, but it also uses the preposition “in” which echoes the English preposition, rather than the contextually expected Yiddish preposition “af” or “oyf.” Zeitlin also uses the adjective “pleynem” to describe this particular variety of Yiddish. “Pleyn” is a loanword from the English “plain” and is inflected here with the Germanic Yiddish morphological suffix “-em.” The word “pleyn” is used with clear reference to English — Yiddish certainly has no shortage of more frequently used words with that same meaning, stemming from a variety of etymological origins, such as “prost,” “poshet,” or “bloyz,” just to name a few.
This kind of intentional bilingualism in the title alone serves as both an example of and a premonition for the complex bilingualism that enriches the text itself. The fact that a textual analysis of the monologue can be rendered even from the title is a testament to the talents of its author.Aaron Zeitlin was “a prodigy and then a leader of Yiddish modernism in Warsaw” (Tolle) Zeitlin wrote about the loneliness, grief, and constant sense of juxtaposition within the Eastern European Jewish diaspora in mid-twentieth-century America. This is especially apparent in this Yiddish monologue, in which an unnamed narrator describes his experiences as a Jewish immigrant in America, with frequent references to death as a metaphor for a loss of culture, constantly switching in and out of English. Talking about his wife, his son, and his daughter, he mourns the loss of his identity, and is constantly drawing distinctions between “Yiddish” and “Jewish.” In Yiddish, one word can describe both the language of the diaspora and the religion practiced by those who speak it; that word itself is “Yiddish.” But while largely speaking Yiddish, the narrator uses the English term “Jewish” to describe American Jewish culture, employing language to draw out this conflict and contrast between his life in America and his life in Poland.
There are many methods for translating a bilingual text; countless translators have grappled with this, particularly within the Yiddish-English translation context. As a diasporic language, Yiddish has always been in contact with a majority language, such as German, Russian, and English (among many others), and has always shown evidence of interference, interjections, and influence from a majority language. Most methods of translation have the goal of maintaining the linguistic context of the narrative — that is to say, when reading the English translation of the Yiddish text, the audience will still know that the characters are meant to be speaking, thinking, living, and breathing in Yiddish, even though they are reading this text in English.
One method that translators use is transliteration, where all text that was in English — but obviously transliterated and spelled out with Yiddish characters in the original text — is transliterated in English as well. This means it would be spelled the way it’s spelled in Yiddish, often with YIVO standardized transliteration. This method maintains a distinction between when the characters are understood to be speaking English and Yiddish, and creates a sense of accent and foreignness for these occurrences of English. Another method is to distinguish between the English and Yiddish texts through formatting, such as italicizing instances of English; This method was used by Zeke Levine and Raphi Halff in their translation of Zeitlin’s Monolog in Pleynem Yidish. Similarly, David Roskies wrote out the English text in all caps, while the Yiddish used standard capitalization conventions. Particularly in prose, other translators will choose to signal when characters switch from one language to another, often writing out something along the lines of, “He said in English.”
Although these methods have merit, they were incompatible with my intended approach; one thing that especially captures my obsession with this monologue is Hertz Grosbard’s performance, rendering the words raw, emotional and bilingual. It is a monologue, after all, rather than a piece of prose, and it is meant to be performed. Methods like formatting, transliteration, and anything involving paratext could not apply here. The most important thing I wanted to convey within the bilingualism of this text was not specifically individual words or phrases, but the way they emphasize the in-between-ness and the identity crisis that the narrator is having. I chose to emphasize this in a way that would work on the stage — letting the canonic language be English and having the narrator switch into Yiddish at important, emotional, intimate moments throughout the monologue. Those Yiddish moments are denoted with italicized text. Although it is true that in this particular context, the monologue is acting as a piece of literature rather than a theatrical work, I would like it to be malleable enough to also be suited to the stage.
I wonder if the Yiddish excerpts will feel inaccessible to some readers, especially those who have had limited contact with the Yiddish language. I have tried to create a translation that is soulful, authentic, and tangible, but I have no doubt that there are moments in which some readers may feel lost — however, they will share this sense of loss with the narrator himself. I have made the effort to put many of the Yiddish words into the kind of context that will make them guessable, rather than fully obscured, but I have also often chosen to leave the especially culturally critical words untranslated. There are certain words that wouldn’t have any kind of passable equivalent in English,; especially when the narrator is describing traditional Jewish funeral rites.
I admit there is one point in which I left a line in Yiddish not because I felt it was understandable in context or that there was absolutely no way to translate it into English, but because I was deeply unsatisfied with any of the English options I had considered. his moment in the monologue was so especially emotional that not only did it make sense for the narrator to switch into his native language, but any translation of this line would have robbed it of the sense and sound it needed. This line is “A nar mit a kar.”
“Nar” means something along the lines of “idiot.” It’s ambiguous to me if “kar” is intended to mean “card” as in “green card” or “car.” I’ve heard both interpretations from Yiddish speakers I know and trust, which left me unsure how to proceed. I liked the “green card” interpretation better because it tied in more closely with themes of immigration and diaspora, but I wasn’t sure if that made sense since the narrator does talk about being a citizen. I looked at what choices other translators had made.
Zeke Levine and Raphi Halff translated this line as “A dummy with some money.” I liked the sonic quality here, and the word “money” certainly forms connections with the overarching themes of making a living, as well as the antisemitic tropes surrounding Jews and money, but the word “dummy” felt too juvenile to suit the tone of an elderly man. David Roskies takes an approach that focuses on sound, translating this as “A fool with a swimming pool” (5). Although this certainly has a similar rhyme to “A nar mit a kar,” the image of the swimming pool seemed out of place within the context of the rest of the monologue.
Some of the options I had initially considered include: Retard with a green card, ass with a pass, wart with a passport, fart with a card, ignoramus with refugee status, geezer with a visa… I didn’t particularly like any of them. None of these options had either the sonic quality nor the sense of meaning and emotion that I wanted to convey from the original Yiddish. They were problematic, forced, clunky, or all of the above. Antoine Berman might describe these as falling into some of the typical translation sins – destruction of rhythms, expansion, or even clarification (Berman 288). Translating this felt impossible. So I didn’t. I ended up leaving this line fully in Yiddish. It will likely not be accessible to the vast majority of the English-speaking audience. I can livewith that, although this is a choice that Berman might refer to as the “exoticization of vernacular networks,” where a Yiddish line that fits neatly into the Yiddish monologue stands out as especially Yiddish among its English counterparts (Berman 294).
Another point of difficult decision-making during my process of translation was a reference to Palestine which would be interpreted differently in the modern context; at one point, the narrator says (in transliterated English in Zeitlin’s Yiddish) “Maybe in Palestine, you know.” To my contemporary anti-Zionist sensibility, I interpret this line not as the Zionist intention of genuinely wanting to or intending to make Aliyah, but as an expression of frustration with the life of an immigrant in America and even an expression of lack of faith in the Zionist ideal. However, my interpretation may or may not align with Zeitlin’s intentions. Zeitlin’s perspective on Israel remains unclear to me, though he did spend a year living in Israel (Tolle). This puts me in the uncomfortable position of choosing whether or not to inappropriately imbue this translation with my own views, or to risk conveying an opinion that does not represent my views and also misaligns with the contemporary reality of the world. I ended up settling on a solution, which, imperfectly, lies somewhere in between these two extremes. After the line “Maybe in Palestine, you know,” I added the phrase “That’s what they say” to imply that the narrator is quoting someone else or referencing a common belief from within his community, while also not necessarily implying that these views are not also his own.
It would be impossible to describe every translation challenge and to justify every choice I’ve made within this essay without letting this essay overpower the text itself. I will end this essay here, with the pledge that I have done my best to approach this piece with introspection, research, and above all, care; and yet I am certain it is flawed. This monologue is, in some ways, a product of the past, but in many ways, it can teach us about our present; narratives of immigration, diaspora, and cultural identity continue to be relevant. I hope that my translation might make you love this text as much as I do.
Monolog af Pleynem English
By Aaron Zeitlin
Translated into English by Andy Roshal
Sure, I’m Polish too, Mr. Zeitlin,
Mind you, when I left Warsaw.
All the women still wore shaytlen,
And all the yidn had beards.
Tramvayen with horses used to roam the streets.
You could get lunch at Hekselman’s for a rubel.
The merchants sat at their tables in their cafes.
Hassidim lived it up in the Gerer Shtibl.
Mind you, sometimes I forget about just plain Jewish —
It’s not the same as Yiddish, you know,
And until now, I’ve been doing my best to
pass down the real varshever Yidish,
Halevay for all the Yiddish children.
I’ve been told that you write the papers.
Jewish is shlekht by us too, Mister.
You may have the head of a minister,
But it won’t do you any good, that’s all.
The truth is, nothing’s worth anything.
You’re alright, though.
But your line of business has one foot in the grave.
Go ahead, primp and preen as much as you want.
Go ahead, tell yourself it’s all gonna be alright.
It’ll help you as much as bankes help a dead man.
Switch to another line, Mister Zeitlin.
Do I remember
The ets and the enk?
Little old words! But me and my Missus,
We use that local Jewish, you know, a plain language.
And besides, we speak English, you know,
Because of the business and because of the kinder.
Sure, back when we were green, as they say, we
spoke differently,
But now —
We speak a plain Yiddish and a plain English. It’s all pleyn.
Back in those green years,
I wasn’t all that satisfied.
I would read the Yiddish papers.
I still remember.
A shtik by, just what was his name?
Jacob Gordon.
Everything was happening back then.
Today we can’t afford all that.
Because I’ve been shoyn lang a citizen, you know,
Here in the United States,
When you become a citizen, you know,
You don’t bother with these green things.
You don’t read the Yiddish papers anymore.
And you don’t go see those jargonish plays.
But when you need to have a shmues, time takes you back,
Though that’s good for nothing except the grave.
Because you just keep missing and remembering.
And once you’re making money — is that worth anything?
My prodigal son Reb Mike,
Anyway, he takes me for an old kike.
You work yourself into the grave, you know, it’s hell.
My daughter isn’t interested in Yiddish boys,
So now she’s infatuated with some Irish goy,
I have stupid, spoiled grandchildren and a goy for a son-in-law.
And my missus, my yidene, don’t you know her?
She creeps around in her trousers,
And makes herself up with paints and powders,
And all with a nagging shriek,
A shriek with no Yiddish flavor.
Oy, Warsaw…
Muranów, Bonifratrów…
That prison with the barred windows. ..
Nalewki, Franciszkańska…
Itshe Mayer prives…
Żelazna Brama…
A varshever resembles his city,
Like a boy resembles his mother.
Sometimes I still see Gzhibov in my dreams.
I’m going back and forth,
And sometimes I lose my way and end up in Mokotów, that old prison,
Where the whole world is green.
What’s going on, anyhow?
It’s not looking too good for Jews, huh?
Hitler… Majdanek..
They say leave Warsaw, leave the world…
Leave… Always just leave.
Well, yes, but, personally,
How are you supposed to get out alive?
Sure, your line has one foot in the grave.
But you have to make a little living anyway, right?
What? Hell!
You say you’re already dead,
But does that mean this life of yours is all a sham?
What kind of dead, then? Do you mean to say that —
Kholile vekhas —
Plain and simple, you’re dead?
Aha, I get it. It’s a joke, aza shpas.
You’re being serious, you say?
You’re telling me, you died in America,
And you never got a proper burial?
Well, I won’t argue with you anymore.
Maybe you’re right.
But anyhow,
Dead, shmead, are you making a living?
What’s on your mind?
I can see that your heart is heavy.
Well, nobody’s listening.
I’ll tell you, mister.
This doesn’t sit right with me either.
Because, after all,
If God wills it, a broom can shoot —
But how long will it keep on shooting,
Long after God has gone home?
But you’re Polish.
Maybe you’ll understand.
But the way you’re looking at me — maybe I’m all alone.
Just me, alone.
An old yid without a beard.
Like a moronic king on a playing card.
And at night, I won’t get a wink of sleep.
I’ll lay there. I’ll lay there.
And a few years will pass in the blink of an eye.
And you’ll think – there lies a foolish yid,
A nar, a nar, a nar, a nar mit a kar,
A Jew in America.
Wait a minute.
What is this thing, anyway, America?
What did it mean back then?
What does it mean now?
My heart, beg your pardon. My heart is weeping.
Why is it weeping?
Oy, Warsaw…
You say I’m a little dead, too?
Well, I’ll tell you, neighbor,
Just between us, you’re a bisl right.
Because nowadays, every Jew is a little dead,
A corpse that can’t sleep at night.
They say: Majdanek… everything burned down…
Really,
I can’t understand, I can’t!
Pleyn farbrent?
And me, this alter nar,
A nar mit a kar,
There’s something I keep missing,
There’s something I keep remembering.
You know, I miss the women with their shaytlen,
The yidn with their beards,
The heymish grits,
Even my teachers and their chalkboards,
And their whips.
I even miss my tate and the way he hit me.
“Smoking on shabbos, you rascal?”
I miss the windows. I miss the walls —
Just the windows and the walls — — —
It’s all farbrent?
They just burned it all down? Plain and simple?
Maybe you understand.
Not me.
I simply can’t understand.
Farbrent? What’s left?
My son, Reb Mike? My son-in-law, that goy?
Maybe in Palestine, you know. That’s what they say. It’s just azoy.
You might as well become plain meshuge.
What the hell, business is alright.
You cut your deck, but—
You lie awake at night and you think,
Where in this godforsaken place is God hiding?
I know he was there in der alter heym.
Is he just not in America, then?
How can that be?
So what if business is alright?
I’ll be in the keyver soon enough. And
Reb Mike won’t say kadish for me. So
of course there won’t be a vogn, They
drive you to the cemetery in a car, Not
in an agole.
The khazn, Mr. Pempik,
Is cold and dull and tempik.
He says a mole for you,
And then, as if you’re in an elevator,
They put you in the ground.
A machine will lower you into your grave,
And all the cars will stampede away.
And goodbye, so long!
No agole,
No orn, no mite,
No ta’are-bret,
And the main thing,
No kadish.
You might as well go and rent one.
Well, I don’t give a damn
For some second-hand American kadish.
It’s all just okh and oy.
But what can you do?
They’ll leave you to rot, just azoy.
You might as well be a goy.
You know, Mr. Zeitlin,
Back in Warsaw,
We used to chain up our doors at night.
Azoy, my heart is locked up with a chain,
Ever since I became an American citizen.
Vi zogt men? Take it easy!
Never mind the tears in my voice:
As long as the dead keep on living,
They’ve got to keep making a living.
That’s all!
Works Cited
Berman, Antoine, and Lawrence Venuti. “Translation and the Trials of the Foreign.” The Translation Studies Reader, 1985, pp. 284–297.
Tolle, Yeshua G. B. “World Literature at the End of the World: The Case of Aaron Zeitlin.” Asymptote,www.asymptotejournal.com/special-feature/world-literature-at-the-end-of-the world-the-case-of-aaron-zeitlin-yeshua-g-b-tolle/.Accessed 18 Mar. 2025.
Zeitlin, Aaron. “Monologue in Plain Yiddish.” Translated by Zeke Levine and Raphi Halff, The Online Treasury of Yiddish Poetry, lider.yiddish.nu/poem.php?poem=aaron_zeitlin_0. Accessed 18 Mar. 2025.
Zeitlin, Aaron. “A Monologue in Plain Yiddish.” Translated by David Roskies, The Sharing Is Caring Archive, archive.yiddish.nu/items/show/447. Accessed 18 Mar. 2025.
