Weiner

by Edward Einhorn

Vienna is a paradox. On the one hand, perhaps more than any other major European city, its history and buildings and art were shaped by the Jews who once lived there. On the other, of course, is the legacy of Hitler, the Holocaust, and more modern ills such as Kurt Waldheim and the Freedom Party. It was also the home of family members, once. My grandfather was a Wiener, which of course means from Vienna.

To have the first truly international congress of the AJT there seemed oddly fitting. To be hosted by Warren Rosenzweig, a displaced Brooklynite with Viennese ancestry, who was now running a modern Jewish theater in Austria, was oddly fitting as well. I had been in Vienna once before, briefly, and I had been struck both with the beauty of Vienna and a sort of coldness I felt underneath. Was that my own psychology, knowing the history of the city, or was there truly something to what I sensed? I hoped Warren could guide me to find out.

I arrived the night Theodore Bikel was giving what I was told, subsequently, was a most moving live concert. Unfortunately, I was just slightly too late (or rather, took too much time recovering from my flight) to make it to the concert, so I chose another path-I went to see Cabaret. It was not part of the festival, just an independent production, at the bourgeois (so Warren later described it) Volkstheatre. But maybe that was precisely what fascinated me. I wanted to see what a production with Jewish content would be like outside of the confines of the congress.

I speak no German, so it was a relief to find out that many of the songs and some of the dialogue was in English, based on the fact that the main characters were English and American. The direction was reminiscent of Mendes' recent Broadway production, when it wasn't reminiscent of Fosse. Perhaps reminiscent is not quite a strong enough word-ideas and moments of choreography were replicated almost exactly. As a production, it was in no way remarkable. But I was fascinated by the fact that it didn't shy away from the Jewish content, in fact including the idea (once again straight from the Mendes' production) that the MC was a Jew. I wished I could understand the comments from the (bourgeois) audience, but aside from a man near me who walked out at intermission, the response seemed positive. I took it as a good sign-seeing Kristallnacht portrayed on that stage, with a rapt Viennese audience watching in horror, certainly brought a lump to my throat.

The next day brought a tour of rain-soaked Vienna, focusing on its Jewish history. I ducked out at the Freud museum in order to examine a man I've often thought of making the subject of a play. I was struck by the affinity I felt towards Viennese Jews in particular, perhaps because of my grandfather.

The next day also brought the official start of the congress, a moving introduction by Theodore Bikel, and my first real introduction to the international scope of the congress. On that day alone I met people making Jewish theater in Bulgaria, in Moscow, in the Netherlands, in Australia, and in Brazil. I even met a few making Jewish theatre in Brooklyn. Learning their personal stories and meeting people who were working around the globe on Jewish theatre was probably the most rewarding aspect of the congress. When talking, through an interpreter, with a man from Moscow, I learned that his theatre was directly inspired from the Torah and the Talmud, and that part of their process was consulting with the theater company's Rabbi. From a director from Bulgaria I learned of Bulgaria's remarkable and surprisingly struggle to save its Jewish community during World War II, a story I knew almost nothing about. From a playwright from Australia I learned how arts funding in Australia had shifted from group to group over the years, one year favoring Jewish themes, the next favoring Aborigine themes.

That evening, from a traveling group from Prague, I learned that not all adaptations of the Dybbuk are to my taste. I had suspected that before, of course. But I was still interested in seeing the movement-based performance, which, I will hasten to add, was much more appreciated by others who attended.

Through the rest of the week, the panels consistently brought revelations, but even more so the discussions, informal and on the fringes, brought camaraderie with a large set of artists whose work I had not known existed before I arrived. In the midst of all the talk with international theatre people I also renewed ties with those in America and found a number of new people from back home that I had never met before. It was exciting, energizing, and inspiring.

Throughout, Warren provided sumptuously beautiful settings, especially for the meals, which lived up to every expectation I might have had. One particular jaunt finally led us to a secret underground hat museum/winery, perhaps a tourist draw, but if so a wonderful one.

Towards the end, along with many other playwrights, I presented seven minutes of a recent play. Mine was about my grandfather, the Wiener. He had grown up in Brooklyn, like our host, but I could truly imagine his parents living in this city. The emptiness that they and all who were driven out or murdered still remained, it was a presence even during the most joyful moments, but I also felt the city, on the whole, had embraced us. Warren had named the event Tikun Olam. I don't know if anything can truly repair the world, but I did feel that after the congress the scar had lightened ever so lightly.

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