The Yiddish language is alive and well in Kiryas Joel, New York, materially the poorest but presumably spiritually the richest town in the United States, where the Satmar Hasidic residents' pious lifestyle is subsidized by the impure Gentile United States via food stamps and Medicaid. It survives in a few more similar places: from Williamsburg in Brooklyn to Stamford Hill in London to Mea Shearim in Jerusalem. Millions of descendants of Ashkenazi Jews in the United States have switched to American English a few generations ago (a statistician former coworker of mine once told me that her mother-in-law's parents spoke Yiddish to her as a child, but she replied in English); those in Israel have switched to Modern Israeli Hebrew and those in the Soviet Union have switched to Russian. I suspect that had the Second World War and the Holocaust not taken place, there would be another few million assimilated Jewish speakers of Russian and Polish. Other than the Hasidic Jews, and old Jews born in interwar Eastern Europe, of whom there are fewer each year, the language has a few hundred enthusiasts around the world, not all of them Jewish. The author is such a person; he admits that most Yiddish speakers under 40 who are not Hasidic Jews have learned the language at a university, in the form of an artificial dialect that corresponds to no authentic one, sometimes from teachers who themselves have learned it at a university; unlike them, he actually learned it from his family, which is the last surviving branch of a rabbinic dynasty. Possessing such unique knowledge, Wex decided to spread it.
This is a book on the world of Yiddish as revealed through its idioms, proverbs and folklore. Wex does not want to have anything to do with the secular Yiddish culture of the late XIX and the early XX century, such as the writings of Sholem Aleichem and Isaac Leib Peretz (Isaac Bashevis Singer was writing in a language that he knew was moribund). Nor does he care about the Yiddish into which Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book was translated in 1913, and Lev Kassil's The Black Book and Schwambrania was in 1937. Instead, his Yiddish lives in a timeless imaginary Eastern European stetl. The physical and mental separation between the Jew and the non-Jew in the world of this book is absolute; one of the idioms Wex cites is "yevonishe toyre": Greek, i.e. non-Jewish, or Ivan's Torah - i.e. the Russian filthy language. I know for a fact that such separation existed but it was not absolute: there were many Ukrainian-Yiddish bilinguals, for one. One of the chapters protests against the popular notion that Yiddish cares little about nature. Of course a tavernkeeper or a shoemaker cares less about nature than a peasant or a husbandryman (yes, there were Jewish peasants and husbandrymen, but proportionately fewer of them than among their Slavic neighbors). However, as befits the language of a minority specializing in services, unlike its agriculturalist neighbors, Yiddish cares a lot about the human mind. One lovely idiom in the book is "khokhem be-layle": "a sage at night", when no one is looking, which is to say an idiot during the day.
The book cites what is probably hundreds of sayings and idioms about birth, childhood, courtship and marriage, sex and death, food, poverty, and luck. A great one is "Zolst vaksn vi a tsibele, mitn kop in dr’erd": "You should grow like an onion, with your head in the ground." To a much greater extent than modern Israeli secular culture, this was a Jewish culture, rooted in the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud. "Sheyne moyshe ve-arendlekh" means "nice breasts": Song of Songs 4:5 talks about a woman's two breasts, and a Midrashic interpretation says that this verse refers to Moses and Aaron. In Numbers 33:26 the Children of Israel pitch their tents at Tahath, a Hebrew word that means "under", which is pronounced "tukhes" in Yiddish and means "buttocks"; "kush mir vu di yidn hobn gerut", "kiss me where the Jews rested" means "kiss my ass."
The book was on The New York Times bestseller list, presumably selling well among American Jews who want to discover their roots in an imaginary stetl. The cover depicts a scowling boy with long sidelocks in a black jacket and a black hat. It is possible that the boy speaks the language the book is about very well, and the language of the book itself less well; however, the boy probably won't read the book in his lifetime. This vexing contradiction is at the center of the book.