Author: Emily Sandberg

Prior to Adi Nestor’s presentation at the Global Jewish Modernism Conference on February 10th, 2023, I had never heard of Rudolf Borchardt or his project to create a German literary canon to rival that of the Italians and the English primarily through the art of translation, but I did harbor an interest in the act of translating itself. In a 2012 article, Ryan Bloom provides an overview of the various translations and mistranslations of the first line of L’Étranger by Albert Camus: “Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.” Is she? That article is what prompted me to study French, so that I could read Camus in its original language. It’s what prompted me to attempt to learn to read Russian in order to best understand Dostoevsky. But what about translation not as an individual literary project but as a comprehensive political agenda? 

Nestor began her presentation with a big question and only complicated its answer as she went on: what is the distinction between a German and a Jewish identity? Rudolf Borchardt was a prototypical case of a bourgeois assimilationist Jew in early 20th century Germany. His parents both converted to Protestantism. Borchardt therefore defined himself as a strictly German, Protestant translator-poet. His style was, in Nestor’s words, “formalist” and purposefully “archaic”, in an attempt to embrace a German traditionalism that never necessarily existed, and which utilizes artful and extensive fictive elements in order to “correct” the past, to create the traditions to which he wanted to adhere. Nestor supplied Borchardt’s Book of Joram as an example of the prototypical work of his German Traditionalist project. It is an attempt to write an apocryphal, Germanic biblical text using almost entirely Lutheran German outside of several deliberate neologisms. The ending to the epic poem is distinctly New Testament: a new messiah born as a redeemer to purge his progenitors. 

Borchardt was determinedly Christian, but in his translations he could never escape an association with Judaism which would only be cemented when the Nazis banned his “Jewish” works. His works are subconsciously acutely related to the so-called “East Prussian Process” of assimilation according to Nestor: a total subsumption of religious Judaism in order to embrace one’s Germanness, an embrace of “one nation, one language”. Not only was Borchardt’s work concerned with Jewish themes and motifs beneath the surface (dissatisfaction, self-hatred, reculturation), but his very act of constant translation, of being uncomfortable in just one language, is distinctly Jewish and modern. The talk left me pondering pre-war German-Jewish culture, a culture to which I have some connection: what is the distinction, if any, between Borchardt’s wandering German, searching for purpose in language, and the stereotype of the wandering Jew? Does there need to be one? Is there a point where the distinction becomes regressive and anti-modern, as suggested by Nestor by way of Theodor Adorno?

During the “What is Multilingualism” conference, Dr. Levy noted in her talk that “…Hebrew has never walked alone” in its evolution as a language and dispersion over time. This sentiment has stayed with me past the conference as I reflect upon the languages in my own life, which include Italian, English, and Hebrew—their history, role in forming my identity, and the lack of singularity in “knowing a language” (Does this require fluency? Comprehension? Something entirely different?). Dr. Levy’s argument of language as a state of being—a state that does not belong to anyone but is inhabited by people at different moments in time—resonates with me and has empowered me to envision language as a more fluid and emotional phenomenon. Language is not owned– it is performed, adapted, perceived. It is functional, acting to facilitate communication, yet simultaneously emotional, bridging connections between people and shaping their identity. In the context of Jewish modernist texts, language often acts in this identity-forming role, revealing the identity of authors themselves, the ideas that are lost or gained when these works are translated, and illuminating the diverse experiences of Jewish characters from across Europe and the globe. It is difficult to define what makes a text a “Jewish text,” just as it is difficult to define the boundaries of knowing a language, or even what makes a singular language, if it has been so heavily influenced by others throughout history. Perhaps, though, expanding both definitions will add new perspectives and nuance to our understanding of Jewish modernist works.

Along with this discussion of the difficulty in defining language and multilingualism, I enjoyed the thought experiment that many of the panels from “What is multilingualism?” proposed: considering multilingualism throughout history. In our class, we often examine the broader historical context of the texts we read, and after attending these conferences, I would argue that the same should be done when discussing the languages themselves that the texts are written in. I found the example of Ladino from Dr. Balbuena’s talk particularly relevant, as for many authors, writing in this language was a conscious choice that subsequently reflects the emotional sentiment and cultural context of this time. Even if authors were not native speakers of the language, Dr. Balbuena points to examples where Ladino simply “felt right” for particular pieces. For instance, the use of Ladino in Sephardic poetry when discussing death, even while the language itself was falling out of use. This also calls into question the differential use of certain languages, not only based on topic of writing, but also based on who was writing– which languages are reserved for academics only? Religious leaders? Workers? The wealthy? Dr. Balbuena’s talk discussed examples of this phenomenon, such as the use of Hebrew in academic and religious works, and the use of Ladino by families as well as its resurgent use in modern and contemporary literature.

The users and uses of languages have varied throughout history, and continue to vary based on context, geographic location, and a multitude of additional factors. Still, this premise that language reflects the person using it and the time of writing is indeed important to consider, especially in the context of Jewish literature. This idea resonates with many of the works we have read, particularly those that choose to use Yiddish during a time with a diminishing number of Yiddish speakers and the rising use of Hebrew for academic and religious texts (for instance, the film East and West or Fradl Shtok’s From the Jewish Provinces). To borrow Dr. Levy’s phrasing, such works do not “walk alone,” but instead walk alongside rich historical and cultural context. As such, I have now come to appreciate that language can provide clues into this context that we should continue to examine and integrate into our understanding of Jewish modernist works.