Every now and then a celebrity passes away and it feels like a death in the family. For me, and many other Jews, the passing of Chaim Topol is one such occasion. Renowned for his portrayal of Tevye, the protagonist of the musical Fiddler on the Roof, Topol came to represent the archetypal Ashkenazi Jewish patriarch, yiddle-diddling his way into the collective consciousness.
I can still remember the first time, now 30-odd years ago, that I saw the 1971 film adaptation of Fiddler – a rite of passage. Sitting in a chilly classroom in the synagogue that Sunday morning, I watched in genuine wonder as a world that was once completely unknown to me came to life in sepia tones and vivid performances. Particularly Topol’s.
Like most British Jews, my family arrived in the UK some time in the late 19th or early 20th century, fleeing the pogroms in eastern Europe. By the time I was born in the early 1980s, the generation that had arrived in London’s East End with only the clothes on their backs were long gone – as was the world they’d left behind. Growing up in the comfort of middle-class London, I had no inkling that my family’s life had ever been any other way. Until I saw Fiddler on the Roof.
The physical details of shtetl life as it appeared on screen might have been foreign to me, but the characters felt uncannily familiar (not least because my grandmother shared her name with the film’s matriarch). As the eldest of three daughters, it was easy to map myself and my sisters on to Tevye’s daughters Tzeitel, Hodel and Chava – each with their own, determined personalities. In Topol’s face, mannerisms and stoicism, I could see my own father; hardworking and devoted to his family. And in Golde, his wife, I saw my mother; standing over the Shabbat candles in the home that she, too, had lovingly created for us.
Fiddler on the Roof may be a musical but underneath the catchy songs and choreographed dance routines lies a story with real integrity. Based on a series of short stories by Sholem Aleichem, the founding father of Yiddish literature, the fictional shtetl of Anatevka and its inhabitants offer a historically accurate account of Jewish life in eastern Europe before the first and second world wars.
As a child, hearing that your family came to the country of your birth fleeing persecution is one thing. But seeing it play out on screen is quite another. As the inhabitants of Anatevka packed their meagre belongings and left their village in search of a better life, I was struck with a sense of relief that, when my ancestors had been in that very position, they’d headed for the UK – and not France or Holland or even Germany, where far worse was yet to come. How had that happened? Had they, like Tevye – who was heading to his brother in New York – been lucky enough to have a relative already here? Or was it just the hand of fate?
When I got home from Sunday school that afternoon, Topol’s explosive rendition of Tradition was still ringing in my ears. It felt as if a piece of the puzzle of who I was, a piece I’d never even known was missing, had finally clicked into place. This spirited, sentimental, heartbreaking musical was my origin story and now not only did I have a clearer understanding of my identity, but I could share it with others, show them my heritage, and help them understand too.
It’s often said that an actor made a part their own, but in the case of Topol it is undeniably true. (I say this as someone who hated Trevor Nunn’s production of Fiddler at the Playhouse, with Andy Nyman as Tevye.) Despite being just 35 when he played Tevye on screen, Topol brought a soulful authenticity to the role that will never be matched. To all intents and purposes, he was Tevye.
Sadly, I know almost nothing about how my family arrived in the UK, nor where they were coming from; the records don’t seem to exist and anyone who knew anything is no longer with us. But thanks to Fiddler on the Roof, I have something to cling on to: some sense of who they were, how they lived, and the hardships they faced. Fiddler on the Roof gave me, and many other Ashkenazi Jews, a sense of belonging. It fills in the gaps our parents and grandparents can’t. What a gift. What a legacy. I’ll be for ever grateful.
