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The Tale of a Niggun

Illustrated by Mark Podwal
Introduction by Elisha Wiesel
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Elie Wiesel’s heartbreaking narrative poem about history, immortality, and the power of song, accompanied by magnificent full-color illustrations by award-winning artist Mark Podwal. Based on an actual event that occurred during World War II.
 
It is the evening before the holiday of Purim, and the Nazis have given the ghetto’s leaders twenty-four hours to turn over ten Jews to be hanged to “avenge” the deaths of the ten sons of Haman, the villain of the Purim story, which celebrates the triumph of the Jews of Persia over potential genocide some 2,400 years ago. If the leaders refuse, the entire ghetto will be liquidated. Terrified, they go to the ghetto’s rabbi for advice; he tells them to return the next morning. Over the course of the night the rabbi calls up the spirits of legendary rabbis from centuries past for advice on what to do, but no one can give him a satisfactory answer. The eighteenth-century mystic and founder of Hasidism, the Baal Shem Tov, tries to intercede with God by singing a niggun—a wordless, joyful melody with the power to break the chains of evil.
 
The next evening, when no volunteers step forward, the ghetto’s residents are informed that in an hour they will all be killed. As the minutes tick by, the ghetto’s rabbi teaches his assembled community the song that the Baal Shem Tov had sung the night before. And then the voices of these men, women, and children soar to the heavens.
 
How can the heavens not hear?
A ghetto,
somewhere in the East,
during the reign of night,
under skies of copper
and fire.

The leaders of the community,
good people all,
courageous all,
fearing God and loving His Law,
came to see
the rabbi
who has cried and cried,
and has searched
darkness
for an answer
with such passion
that he no longer
can see.

It’s urgent,
they tell him,
it’s more than urgent;
it’s a matter
of life or death
for some Jews
and perhaps
all Jews.

Speak,
says the rabbi,
tell me all:
I wish not to be spared.

This is what the enemy demands,
says the oldest
of the old Jews
to the rabbi,
who listens
breathlessly.
The enemy demands
ten Jews,
chosen by us
and handed over to him
before tomorrow evening.
Tomorrow is Purim,
and the enemy,
planning to avenge
Haman’s ten sons,
will hang ten of our own,
says the oldest
of the old Jews.
And he asks:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.

And his colleagues,
brave people
though frightened,
repeat after him:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.

We are afraid,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
afraid to make a decision—
afraid to make the wrong decision:
Help us, rabbi,
decide for us—and
in our place.

And the rabbi,
their guide,
feels his knees weakening,
the blood rushing to his face,
his chest is ready to burst,
and the room is turning,
turning,
turning around him,
and so is the earth,
and so are the skies,
and soon,
he feels,
he will fall
as falls the blind man,
a victim of night
and its prowlers.

He demands an answer,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
the enemy demands an answer;
tell us what it must be,
our duty is to guide
just as ours is to follow.

What should we do
or say?
ask the leaders
of the ghetto
somewhere in the East
under forbidden
and cursed skies;
what can we do
so as not to be doomed?
“A short nar­ra­tive poem with dev­as­tat­ing impact, beau­ti­ful­ly illus­trat­ed and accom­pa­nied by a help­ful glos­sary con­tex­tu­al­iz­ing ref­er­ences to his­toric rab­bis, cities, and con­cepts, includ­ing that of the nig­gun, a mys­ti­cal song that one rab­bi called ​‘the pen of the soul.’ ”
—Jewish Book Council
 
“The tale and its lesson are classically Wiesel. Human and beautiful, it empowers the powerless. It’s traditional for Jews to place stones on graves; this story, based on several examples from history, places a pebble on an already insurmountable pile of rocks. The Tale of a Niggun is, of course, a Jewish book, but also not a Jewish book. Jewish stories, even in the present tense, are ancient stories, and the question and lesson central to the book are as present now as they’ve been since Eve left Eden . . . Frequent Wiesel illustrator Mark Podwal’s watercolor paintings are lovely.
—New York Journal of Books

“Accompanied by Mark Podwal's quietly haunting full-page illustrations, Wiesel’s spare language cuts to the heart of human loss while the rhythms of the poetry capture the sad, endless march of inhumanity through history. At the same time, this poem sings out the power of belief and community and love.”
—Kirkus Reviews
ELIE WIESEL was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. The author of more than fifty internationally acclaimed works of fiction and nonfiction, he was Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities and University Professor at Boston University for forty years. Wiesel died in 2016. View titles by Elie Wiesel
To Say that I am Here

It started with an illness, perhaps just a “bad cold,” that caused me to miss the first days of kindergarten. As a result, my name was not on the class roster. When my teacher read out the attendance list, as she did every morning, my name was never called. I participated in whatever my classmates were instructed to do. But until the day my teacher noticed my drawing of a train I was invisible to her. And so it seemed to me, at the age of five, that my existence depended on my art.

Though I loved to draw, I never pursued formal art training and eventually my parents encouraged me to become a physician. But while attending medical school, my passion for drawing once again crept in: the tumultuous events of the 1960’s compelled me to create a series of political drawings that were published as my first book. These images were brought to the attention of an art director at The New York Times, and in 1972, my first drawing appeared on the Op-Ed page of that newspaper. That drawing of the Munich massacre was later included in an exhibition at the Louvre in Paris.

My pictures are full of “unexpected juxtapositions” like a book growing on a tree or a constellation made of fruits. Prior to illustrating for children, I had only drawn in black and white. Nowadays I prefer working in color, and Jerusalem Sky gave me a wonderful opportunity to use a vibrant palette.

Jerusalem Sky, my eleventh children’s book, is an ecumenical vision of the holy city, which for Judaism, Christianity and Islam is more dream than history.

How I came to write and illustrate my first children’s book is a story in itself. In 1994, when the rabbi of my synagogue was planning his winter vacation, he asked me to give the Friday evening sermon. When I asked what the weekly Torah reading was, he told me “The Ten Commandments.” When I asked how long he wanted me to speak, he answered, “ten minutes.” Consequently, the following week I addressed the congregation for ten minutes on the significance of the number ten in Judaism. My two young sons, Michael and Ariel, liked the talk so much that they urged me to expand it into a book for children. The result was The Book of Tens.

Neither from a religious family nor observant, I nonetheless derive continuing inspiration from my heritage. Fascinated by Jewish history, moved by its teachings, enchanted by its legends and folklore, and delighted by Yiddish proverbs, I have attempted through my work to enliven its traditions, wisdom, beauty and wit in a visual way.

Still pursuing my parallel career as a physician, I have been fortunate to see my art exhibited in major museums, animated for television, woven into a tapestry to adorn the largest synagogue in the world, design ceramic plates and jewelry for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and to collaborate on numerous projects with Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel. Perhaps it all springs from missing those first few days of kindergarten and needing my drawings to say that I am here. View titles by Mark Podwal

About

Elie Wiesel’s heartbreaking narrative poem about history, immortality, and the power of song, accompanied by magnificent full-color illustrations by award-winning artist Mark Podwal. Based on an actual event that occurred during World War II.
 
It is the evening before the holiday of Purim, and the Nazis have given the ghetto’s leaders twenty-four hours to turn over ten Jews to be hanged to “avenge” the deaths of the ten sons of Haman, the villain of the Purim story, which celebrates the triumph of the Jews of Persia over potential genocide some 2,400 years ago. If the leaders refuse, the entire ghetto will be liquidated. Terrified, they go to the ghetto’s rabbi for advice; he tells them to return the next morning. Over the course of the night the rabbi calls up the spirits of legendary rabbis from centuries past for advice on what to do, but no one can give him a satisfactory answer. The eighteenth-century mystic and founder of Hasidism, the Baal Shem Tov, tries to intercede with God by singing a niggun—a wordless, joyful melody with the power to break the chains of evil.
 
The next evening, when no volunteers step forward, the ghetto’s residents are informed that in an hour they will all be killed. As the minutes tick by, the ghetto’s rabbi teaches his assembled community the song that the Baal Shem Tov had sung the night before. And then the voices of these men, women, and children soar to the heavens.
 
How can the heavens not hear?

Excerpt

A ghetto,
somewhere in the East,
during the reign of night,
under skies of copper
and fire.

The leaders of the community,
good people all,
courageous all,
fearing God and loving His Law,
came to see
the rabbi
who has cried and cried,
and has searched
darkness
for an answer
with such passion
that he no longer
can see.

It’s urgent,
they tell him,
it’s more than urgent;
it’s a matter
of life or death
for some Jews
and perhaps
all Jews.

Speak,
says the rabbi,
tell me all:
I wish not to be spared.

This is what the enemy demands,
says the oldest
of the old Jews
to the rabbi,
who listens
breathlessly.
The enemy demands
ten Jews,
chosen by us
and handed over to him
before tomorrow evening.
Tomorrow is Purim,
and the enemy,
planning to avenge
Haman’s ten sons,
will hang ten of our own,
says the oldest
of the old Jews.
And he asks:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.

And his colleagues,
brave people
though frightened,
repeat after him:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.

We are afraid,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
afraid to make a decision—
afraid to make the wrong decision:
Help us, rabbi,
decide for us—and
in our place.

And the rabbi,
their guide,
feels his knees weakening,
the blood rushing to his face,
his chest is ready to burst,
and the room is turning,
turning,
turning around him,
and so is the earth,
and so are the skies,
and soon,
he feels,
he will fall
as falls the blind man,
a victim of night
and its prowlers.

He demands an answer,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
the enemy demands an answer;
tell us what it must be,
our duty is to guide
just as ours is to follow.

What should we do
or say?
ask the leaders
of the ghetto
somewhere in the East
under forbidden
and cursed skies;
what can we do
so as not to be doomed?

Reviews

“A short nar­ra­tive poem with dev­as­tat­ing impact, beau­ti­ful­ly illus­trat­ed and accom­pa­nied by a help­ful glos­sary con­tex­tu­al­iz­ing ref­er­ences to his­toric rab­bis, cities, and con­cepts, includ­ing that of the nig­gun, a mys­ti­cal song that one rab­bi called ​‘the pen of the soul.’ ”
—Jewish Book Council
 
“The tale and its lesson are classically Wiesel. Human and beautiful, it empowers the powerless. It’s traditional for Jews to place stones on graves; this story, based on several examples from history, places a pebble on an already insurmountable pile of rocks. The Tale of a Niggun is, of course, a Jewish book, but also not a Jewish book. Jewish stories, even in the present tense, are ancient stories, and the question and lesson central to the book are as present now as they’ve been since Eve left Eden . . . Frequent Wiesel illustrator Mark Podwal’s watercolor paintings are lovely.
—New York Journal of Books

“Accompanied by Mark Podwal's quietly haunting full-page illustrations, Wiesel’s spare language cuts to the heart of human loss while the rhythms of the poetry capture the sad, endless march of inhumanity through history. At the same time, this poem sings out the power of belief and community and love.”
—Kirkus Reviews

Author

ELIE WIESEL was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. The author of more than fifty internationally acclaimed works of fiction and nonfiction, he was Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities and University Professor at Boston University for forty years. Wiesel died in 2016. View titles by Elie Wiesel
To Say that I am Here

It started with an illness, perhaps just a “bad cold,” that caused me to miss the first days of kindergarten. As a result, my name was not on the class roster. When my teacher read out the attendance list, as she did every morning, my name was never called. I participated in whatever my classmates were instructed to do. But until the day my teacher noticed my drawing of a train I was invisible to her. And so it seemed to me, at the age of five, that my existence depended on my art.

Though I loved to draw, I never pursued formal art training and eventually my parents encouraged me to become a physician. But while attending medical school, my passion for drawing once again crept in: the tumultuous events of the 1960’s compelled me to create a series of political drawings that were published as my first book. These images were brought to the attention of an art director at The New York Times, and in 1972, my first drawing appeared on the Op-Ed page of that newspaper. That drawing of the Munich massacre was later included in an exhibition at the Louvre in Paris.

My pictures are full of “unexpected juxtapositions” like a book growing on a tree or a constellation made of fruits. Prior to illustrating for children, I had only drawn in black and white. Nowadays I prefer working in color, and Jerusalem Sky gave me a wonderful opportunity to use a vibrant palette.

Jerusalem Sky, my eleventh children’s book, is an ecumenical vision of the holy city, which for Judaism, Christianity and Islam is more dream than history.

How I came to write and illustrate my first children’s book is a story in itself. In 1994, when the rabbi of my synagogue was planning his winter vacation, he asked me to give the Friday evening sermon. When I asked what the weekly Torah reading was, he told me “The Ten Commandments.” When I asked how long he wanted me to speak, he answered, “ten minutes.” Consequently, the following week I addressed the congregation for ten minutes on the significance of the number ten in Judaism. My two young sons, Michael and Ariel, liked the talk so much that they urged me to expand it into a book for children. The result was The Book of Tens.

Neither from a religious family nor observant, I nonetheless derive continuing inspiration from my heritage. Fascinated by Jewish history, moved by its teachings, enchanted by its legends and folklore, and delighted by Yiddish proverbs, I have attempted through my work to enliven its traditions, wisdom, beauty and wit in a visual way.

Still pursuing my parallel career as a physician, I have been fortunate to see my art exhibited in major museums, animated for television, woven into a tapestry to adorn the largest synagogue in the world, design ceramic plates and jewelry for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and to collaborate on numerous projects with Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel. Perhaps it all springs from missing those first few days of kindergarten and needing my drawings to say that I am here. View titles by Mark Podwal