If you couldn’t tell by the last name of “Cohen,” I am a Jew. And not surprisingly, I find myself with a proclivity for Jewish-American fiction. Maybe it’s because of my religious (perhaps cultural is a better term) background or the fact that I took a Jewish-American fiction class in college. Who knows. I also dig history, that of the Russian variety to be more precise, and wrote my final undergraduate research paper on the influence of Russian culture on the native tribes of Alaska.
And apparently Michael Chabon wrote a book for me. A book with Jews that takes place in Alaska, where the streets still have Slavic names and the Tlingit are at odds with my people. A book where Israel never happened and (like today) we’re still out of place in the world. Chabon’s universe is cold, both in temperature and in attitude. There’s a mystery to be solved, even if it doesn’t really matter in the end because the Jews of Sitka are all screwed anyway. But like a game of chess, it’s all in the details.
I borrowed a copy of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union from my gentile co-worker, with a forewarning of “Give it a hundred or so pages. Then it gets good.” But that was completely unnecessary. Chabon didn’t write a novel, he wrote a movie; he scripted yid noir that can only be fully appreciated if you were raised on High Holy Day services. Plus there’s nothing funnier than a book full of Jewish characters. Maybe funny’s not the right word. Snarky. Sarcastic. It’s a book full of smart asses. Because even if we don’t have Israel, we still have our senses of humor. And that’s what’s sustained us as a people for 5,000 years. That and Seinfeld references.
I hear the Coen Brothers are going to make this into a movie. How appropriate.
