Original subtitles

"A language is a dialect with an army behind" Max Weinreich

My children, I want to tell you a story.

It's a love story, one could say.

Although I do not believe in the existence of such a thing.

So let's say that this is the story of an impostor.

A cheater whose lies had catastrophic consequences.

Because this is also the story of how an entire folk

decided to turn its back on their history,

to bury its own culture.

But we'll get to that.

First, allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Satan.

The spirit of evil, the original serpent, Lilith.

Or as the Jews prefer to call me...

"That One".

The events that I am going to narrate happened in the year 1908

in a small shtetl located on the banks of the Tisza river,

near the Carpathian mountains.

In those lands called Ukraine today,

but which only the Nameless knows what they'll be called tomorrow.

Okay, Grandma, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions

for a documentary I'm making.

- May I? - Yes.

Are these photos from your family's village in Bessarabia?

Honestly, I don't have the slightest idea.

Was there a klezmer band at your wedding?

Nope.

It's a documentary about klezmer music.

Since when do you like klezmer music?

Let's start with the impostor.

Yankel worked at the cemetery.

A double orphan,

the young impostor had been raised by his grandmother.

As soon as his arms were strong enough

to lift a shovel full of earth,

his grandma got the old gravedigger

to accept his help in exchange for some coins per day.

Did young Yankel like his job?

Of course not.

Yankel hated his job.

Hi, Leandro. How are you?

Two things:

Today's wedding is going to be edited by Alejandra.

She said she'd be at her house, so when you're done,

please bring the memory cards to her.

She told me again to ask you to do shorter shots.

We've talked about this, right?

Please pay attention.

I forgot to tell you something important about today:

the wedding video is paid by the bride's family.

So try to pay special attention to them

Not a 100% but you know what I mean...

They are paying so... See what you can do.

Debbie...

Chebi...

welcome.

Welcome, brujim habaim. Welcome to this white chuppah.

As white as your souls, your smiles, your hearts...

Yankel hated digging graves.

He hated the gravedigger,

the rabbi, and the hypocritical Kaddish verses he read.

I do.

He cursed every shovelful of earth he removed from the ground.

And he cursed it again when he tossed it over the coffin.

However, some days,

the rabbi came to recite the Kaddish accompanied by his daughter

who assisted him during the ceremony.

I do.

Taibele.

Those days, Yankel loved his work.

You may kiss the bride.

Yankel knew very well

that in order to ask for the hand of the rabbi's daughter,

a man had to be rich or a Torah scholar.

And he was neither one nor the other.

So in those days when her miraculous appearence took place,

Yankel stared wide-eyed at her in secret.

Barely peeking out from the bottom of some half-dug grave,

full of dirt,

and of a secret desire for the young and beautiful daughter

of the religious leader of the shtetl.

You must be wondering what my part in this story is.

Oh, well. Here I make my appearance.

One day, after the burial of an old tailor,

I made the unexpected happen.

According to Hebrew law, studies are optional for women.

The rabbi of the shtetl, a pragmatic man,

summed it up more simply:

For women, the study of the Torah

was strictly forbidden.

But Taibele, curious by nature,

studied it in secret, hidden from her father.

That afternoon, Taibele stayed at the cemetery

thinking about the Kaddish verses

that her father had just recited.

Hi. Can I ask you for a glass with ice?

The first shovelfuls of earth that Yankel threw on the coffin

brought her out of her reverie.

And Taibele, who was as good at studying

as she was clumsy when it came to conversation,

shared her thoughts with Yankel without even greeting him.

The food sucks, right?

These knishes seem kneaded on the bathroom floor.

Who do I have to talk to to get the footage of what you filmed?

What footage?

You were shooting while we were playing, right?

I would like to get that video footage.

I can give it to you.

By not admitting that he did not know the scriptures,

young Yankel told the first lie.

I'm not filming for the bride and groom.

So why are you filming at the wedding?

I'm making a documentary.

Taibele was suspicious, but Yankel told her he studied alone, in secret.

- A documentary on klezmer? - Klezmer.

I see... I'm very interested in that.

- Do you have bands on film? - Yes.

And could you...

- We have to go. - Sorry, I have to go.

Can you give me your number. I'll call you.

- Sure. - We can get together to see...

It would be great if you could give me footage of my band.

Tell me.

11

- 6112-7682. - OK.

- Your name? - Leandro.

- Yours? - Paloma.

Nice meeting you.

- Thank you. - Bye.

"THE KLEZMER PROJECT"

The study of the scriptures sowed in Taibele,

as well as in any rabbi student,

more questions than answers.

But she, unlike others, could not share them.

That chance encounter with the young gravedigger's assistant

planted in Taibele a new feeling

that she still couldn't put into words.

It shone in her eyes, this was clearly seen,

a new happiness when she woke up in the morning.

Had she finally found a fellow scripture student,

someone to share her secret with?

Yankel, for his part, ran to his grandmother

to get hold of the only book he could have access to.

Short Treatise on God, Man and His Well-Being,

by Baruch Spinoza,

an old book that his grandfather hid somewhere

and that her grandmother had never touched.

Do you like what you're doing?

What's that?

This work.

This documentary?

For example.

I like it. Yes.

You used to have another job.

Yes, I still do.

Filming at weddings.

- I still do it. - That's good.

Yes, well...

So why didn't you have a wedding at the synagogue?

Because...

your grandmother, who was the mother,

in that sense...

No, you are my grandmother.

So where did you come from?

I am your son's son.

Right. Then no.

One morning, arriving at the cemetery,

the young gravedigger's assistant

found a note written by Taibele next to his shovel.

Hi, Leandro. How are you?

It's Paloma.

We met the other day at the wedding in Zona Norte.

I'm calling because you told me you could give me the footage of my band

and the truth is that it would be great

because I'm working on an application for a fund

and I need video footage.

And I also wanted to ask you about this documentary you mentioned.

We can get together and you can give me my footage

and show me what you've been filming.

I hope you're doing well. Kisses.

Yankel had to study that book as fast as he could

if he didn't want his lie to be discovered.

Hi, Walter, how are you? Just a question.

Do you remember the name of the band that played at the wedding in Flores?

Well, while they prepare for the next song,

'cause this can't stop now,

I want to tell you

today's a very special day,

because there's a person among us who's been investigating

klezmer music for many years, and he's here today with his camera.

Where is he?

There he is.

He is a filmmaker making a documentary

about klezmer music in Argentina.

The impostor feared being unmasked.

So he read as much as he could before the meeting with Taibele.

And the reading surprised him pleasantly.

This Spinoza guy knew how to explain feelings

that Yankel had never managed to put into words.

What Yankel did not know

is that these ideas had cost Spinoza the curse,

the banishment, and the expulsion from Judaism.

- Then we have the... - Mogui?

- Hi. - Hello.

Someone came to see you.

Hi, Berta! How are you?

- So nice to see you. - What a surprise!

- Long time no see. - She is your family, right?

- Yes, she's family of course. - She looks like your mother.

- How's your life? - Really good, doing music.

The young girl of your sister... how old is she?

- Whose young girl? - Your sister.

- Or a boy, I don't know. - Wait a minute.

- You mean Diana? - Diana.

She has a boy and a girl.

The daughter is forty-something, and the son is thirty-something.

Right. Tamy is Diana's daughter, and she lives in Gualeguay.

She went back to Diana's hometown.

And tell me, your mother's sisters...

Chiche is the only one alive. She lives in Israel.

- I still talk with her. - She's the only one.

- The only one? - Yes.

- Rita's dead? - Long time ago.

- Yes? And Ana from Mendoza? - Yes. Many years ago.

All of them. Ricardo is dead, Pipe is dead, Jorge is dead.

They are all dead. Chiche's the only one alive.

- And your dad? - My dad is dead too.

Really? I didn't know that.

But you know my sister died, right?

Yes, that's why I was asking who was left alive.

I'm the only one alive.

The day of the meeting with Taibele finally arrived.

I don't get where his voice is coming from.

Yeah, right?

They are the Técsői Banda, from a town in Ukraine called Tyachiv.

This is klezmer?

No. But they used to play klezmer

because they were hired to play at Jewish weddings.

- Will you record them on your trip? - No, they are all dead.

But there are other bands like theirs.

I will read you something that Bob Cohen wrote

that I included in my application.

Who's Bob Cohen?

An American ethnomusicologist I'm going to meet with.

Shall I read?

"I've known the musicians of the Técsői Banda for almost a decade,

since Kiss Ferenc, from Etnophone Records, started bringing this amazing Hutsul band

to Hungary for festivals.

One of the last traditional bands still functioning in the region,

in the sense of playing their traditional repertoire in their community

as a full-time job.

The Técsői come from the west of the Ukraine

just on the border with Romania.

The Técsői Banda are the sons of Manyo Csernovec,

a gypsy violinist and community leader

who was known as the most virtuoso musician

to ever play at local events, both Jewish and Hungarian.

The Técsői Band is one of the reasons

why I still live in this part of the world."

This is because Bob lives in Budapest.

"They are still here.

I am here.

Something bigger than us is still here.

I keep touring Eastern Europe in search of traces of Yiddish music.

The memory of Jewish culture is kept alive by non-Jews,

those who choose to treasure the legacy of the lost neighbors,

but never forgotten.

Yiddishkeit lives through those who were touched by it."

Yiddishkeit would be this Yiddish culture?

Yes.

Why does he say it's dead when Jews are alive?

No, wait.

If you don't know this,

I'm going to read something that I could have read before.

Let's see.

OK, here.

"The culture of the Jewish people

radically changed since the creation of the State of Israel.

Before World War II, most of the Jews rejected Zionist ideas.

In fact, despite the persecutions

of the late 19th century in Eastern Europe,

only 3% of Jews had emigrated to Palestine."

- Is it boring? - Go on. It's not boring.

"Finally, when the State of Israel was founded

not only was Hebrew adopted as the official language,

but policies to proscribe and persecute Yiddish were also enacted.

What was it about this language, this culture,

that made the founders of the new Jewish State feel so threatened?"

Just a minute, I have to take this.

Hi.

Hi! How are you?

Fine! I'm fine, yes.

Yes. I have almost everything ready.

How are you, gal? What's up?

Yes. Oh, you went.

Oh, good.

Buenos Aires, May 5th, 2021.

Four notes on this alleged documentary about klezmer music.

One:

Klezmer was born in Eastern Europe,

in the context of a culture that no longer exists.

Two:

The reason for the disappearance of that culture is apparently a mystery.

I don't know much about the subject yet.

I read from the book by Susana Skura that Paloma lent me.

It reads:

"The natural sequence of an individual's life

is completed when they die.

The natural sequence of the life of a culture, on the other hand,

is completed when the culture is passed from generation to generation.

It is as unnatural for a culture to die as it is for an individual to never die.

Cultures and their languages never die naturally.

They are assassinated."

Forty years ago, Marcelo and I were alone

retaking this, which had been interrupted in the 50s.

Why was it interrupted?

It was interrupted because at that time,

with the creation of the State of Israel, parties stopped,

except for the first set which is the klezmer set

in which everyone dances furiously...

There's no more Yiddish theatre.

- And that was because of Israel, too? - Yes.

When I was a boy, I went to a Jewish school and studied Yiddish,

and when I was in... 6th or 5th grade

we started studying Hebrew, and Yiddish...

disappeared.

Three:

The book's quote note is an excellent excuse to contact Paloma.

Four:

Lerner y Moguilevsky are going on tour and they offered me to film it.

The expenses are on me.

"Lerner-Moguilevsky On Tour" I put up all the dates,

with the photo that Furman gave me...

of the two of us in the field.

I'll take a look.

- Did you like it? - Yes, of course.

That night, Taibele entered her house

trying not to be heard by her father.

She couldn't tell him where she had been,

but at the same time she felt an immense desire to share with him

the new and fascinating interpretation

that Yankel had made of the sacred texts.

It was past midnight

when tired of cooking the pillow with her boiling thoughts,

she decided to go to the room where her father was reading

by candlelight.

In spite of his entirely aloof character,

the rabbi was extremely affectionate with his daughter.

Upon seeing her troubled face,

he pulled out a chair and asked what was bothering her.

Taibele reassured him.

It was not concern, but emotion what had her like that.

And then she imparted a pauseless monologue

in which she spoke about God, no longer as the almighty creator of the universe,

but like nature, like everything we see, hear, touch,

and even what we are.

"Everything is God!" Taibele yelled, "I am God and you too, father."

The rabbi felt the urge of slapping her.

He already knew Spinoza's ideas,

and like all scholars, he considered them satanic.

Yet he waited patiently until his daughter finished speaking,

and outlining a big smile,

he asked her where she had gotten such particular ideas.

Taibele told him the truth,

believing that her father would invite her new friend to the yeshiva.

In a subdued voice, the rabbi managed to say,

"Where there are two Jews, there are three opinions."

And then, fantasizing about whipping the young man

who intended to corrupt his daughter's heart,

he asked her to invite him to dinner.

He and his fellow Talmudical colleagues, he said...

would have a banquet on Shabbat to meet him.

The first part ends here.

Next class, I'll read you the second one.

Now I want to take advantage of these five minutes we have left

for Paloma to tell us about her trip...

"During the filming of a wedding,

a mediocre cameraman

fell in love with a..."

I forgot.

First line.

I'll say it, "During the filming of a wedding..."

"On the occasion of a wedding."

"During the filming of a wedding."

"On the occasion of a wedding."

It's "during the filming of a wedding."

"During the filming of a wedding."

"A mediocre cameraman."

"A mediocre cameraman

fell in love with a klezmer clarinetist."

- Beautiful! Do you want a glass of water? - Nope.

"Soon after, she left for Eastern Europe.

As an excuse to go after her,

the cameraman made up a documentary on the subject.

Although he was Jewish, he did not like klezmer,

nor the little hats, or anything that had to do with Judaism.

To find the last remains of this almost extinct culture,

they'll have to search among the possessed gypsies

who lived with the Jews before the war."

- I don't like this text. - Why don't you like it?

I didn't like the part about the little hats.

You say it in a derogatory way.

Are you leaving already?

Let's do it one more time.

You may omit the little hats

and the part you added about the possessed gypsies.

A DECENT WOMAN

Lukas Valenta Rinner.

- I didn't get it. - Lukas Valenta Rinner, that's his name.

No, I don't know him.

Have you met yet?

Not yet. Hopefully tomorrow I'll meet him.

I saw his film today at the movies. It was crowded.

And Mogi? Are you filming the tour?

Yes, I filmed the last concert yesterday here in Salzburg.

Was it good?

It's not the same without Lerner, but it was still very good.

What's the next stop of the tour?

He's going to Germany, but I'm staying here.

I want to concentrate on the film.

I'd like to go East and connect my film to your research.

Where were you exactly?

In Tyachiv, Ukraine.

How long are you staying there?

I don't know.

As soon as Bob texts me, I'm leaving for Romania.

The thing is there's only one train per week here.

If you arrive earlier, we can meet here.

But the truth is I don't know how much longer I'll be here.

I wanted to meet up with you.

Yes, it would be nice. Try to come here first.

We can always meet later.

Well... okay.

Let's keep in touch.

- All right, let's do that. - Okay. Kiss.

Kiss.

Hey.

Long time, huh?

How's it going?

All good?

Can I get you another?

Yes. Sure.

How long has it been?

Ten years?

- Twelve years. - Something like that.

- Something like that. - Twelve years, sure.

- You look the same. - You too.

Listen, I think the idea is great.

Making a film about klezmer music is great.

I know people from the Austrian public television channel

who are always interested in those subjects.

I think it's a film that may interest them.

We could pitch the idea for sure.

My point of view would be getting rid of that romantic idea

of an unverifiable past that's based on your experience

and isn't really a universal experience,

we put aside your anti-Semitism,

and we really make a film about klezmer music.

OK.

Great.

Also, I'm glad that you're making films. I thought that...

You know, I've never seen you at film festivals,

I never heard your name anywhere,

I thought you had a different job...

So, cool.

- Cheers. - Cheers.

Yankel woke up.

Little by little, the memories of the night before

began to bring him back to reality.

He remembered the monologue

he delivered in front of Taibele's father and his disciples

reciting Spinoza's words as if they were his own.

The silence that fell at the table when he finished speaking.

Then the screams, the insults,

the violence with which they dragged him to the street

with promises of excommunication and banishment.

He gathered what little he had in a bag,

wrote a note to his grandmother

and ran away from his house.

Upon reaching the cemetery, he found a note next to his shovel.

"Dear Yankel, I'm sorry about what happened. I leave for the city.

Taibele."

He managed to get the gravedigger to give him a few coins

and he started walking.

They hire us exclusively,

you as director and me as executive producer of the film.

For any change that we want to do,

we need their written approval.

Otherwise, the agreement may be terminated.

Yankel had been walking towards the city for an entire day

when he reached the first village.

His shoes, full of holes, and his exhaustion

made him understand that walking would not get him very far.

In the village market, he tried to buy a mule from a gentile,

who laughed at him when he saw the few coins he had.

Yankel told him he was a young student of the sacred Hebrew scriptures.

That although he was of humble origin, his name was already known in the city.

And they were waiting for him to speak before the community.

"When I return to my village,

I will be able to give you double what you ask for the mule."

The gentile did not believe that Yankel would come back.

"I'll go to the city with you, and you'll pay me there.

Then I will return with my two mules," he proposed.

Yankel accepted the deal.

The gentile shook his hand and introduced himself.

His name was...

...Kristoff.

Hi, Paloma. How are you?

Remember the Austrian producer I told you about?

Well, I need your help.

I'll try to be brief.

It turns out the guy got interested in my film and got a lot of money

from the Austrian television to make a documentary on klezmer music.

So we left almost a week ago in a van full of equipment and Austrians.

The first stop was Ukraine. I was hoping to get there before you left.

UKRAINE

Is that place there?

I don't know. I lost coverage.

It's not here.

We looked for musicians, synagogues, weddings, recitals.

We found nothing.

On the fourth day, the Austrians began to look at me with suspicion.

There's nothing here.

Look, it's exactly the point you marked.

Yes, but it's not here.

Luckily, that afternoon we met Vanya Lemen,

a young violinist who plays traditional Transcarpathian music.

I heard from my grandmother that Jews lived here a long time ago,

many Jews.

I also learned that many musicians,

our Ruthenian musicians, played at their weddings.

Tyachiv's band, the Técsői Banda played that music.

Because those musicians were present when the Jews still lived here.

But I never played at their weddings

because they left this place a long time ago.

This is your grandfather's old violin.

Grandpa sold it.

We spent a few days with him,

and he kept talking about his teacher.

"HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY! UKRAINE"

Yesterday, we finally met him.

It turns out he's Ivan Popovych.

The violinist of the Técsői Banda.

I found the last Técsői alive, Paloma, and I spent the last two days with him.

My name is Ivan.

I was born in the Transcarpathia region in the Mezhgorye area,

and now I live in the city of Tyachiv.

I used to have a band called Técsői Banda.

We played melodies of all the existing nationalities

here in Transcarpathia and throughout Ukraine.

Some Hungarian melodies, Jewish, Romanian...

Ukrainian...

Gypsy, too.

In short, of all the peoples who lived in the Transcarpathian region.

Yes, Gypsy melodies, too.

Nobody can sing these songs anymore.

My wife Katya used to sing them, but not anymore.

Her legs hurt.

She's ill. She's already 65 years old.

- What's that, Katya? - I doubt I can, but I can try.

Come here.

Let's see, play.

Merciful

And loving God

I have to go see

The blonde

Because she has bewitched me.

To tell you the truth, Paloma, I'm very happy here.

I would stay here filming Ivan's family for the rest of the shooting.

But this is the problem I wanted to tell you about.

We came all this way thinking we would find klezmer bands,

and things with Lukas are getting tense.

So if you're looking for Jewish melodies,

you have to go to Moldova.

In the cities and in the villages of Moldova,

there are still people...

who know Jewish melodies.

Here, in Transcarpathia, we no longer have melodies like that.

Not anymore.

Are there any klezmer bands there in Romania?

Before we left, Ivan gave Vanya a package

for a guy who works as a passer at the Romanian border.

I didn't get exactly where the package is going,

but it's going to Romania for sure.

So I told Lukas that we should follow it

because he was certainly sending it to some Jewish friend that we could film.

But the truth is it's just an excuse to get to you.

I know nothing about that package.

Neither what's inside, nor whom it's addressed to.

Exactly. We don't know anything.

We could go to Romania, and then Moldova.

I can keep doing numbers.

But I feel... we can't.

Everything's fine?

All good. Leandro proposes that we cross to Romania

to see what's in the package and where it leads us.

- To Romania? - Yes.

Thanks.

All right, we'll see.

I have a leak in my room.

So that's the situation.

We should be crossing to Romania in the next few days,

and I'm a little bit worried because you didn't answer...

my last three messages.

I don't know if you got them or not.

Judaism in Solotvyno is different now from what it was in my childhood.

Then, there were 60 Jewish families.

Now it's just me and an old lady left.

In Solotvyno there were four synagogues before the war,

and now there is none.

If I want to go to the synagogue, I have to cross the border to Sighetu.

In Sighetu, tobacco is more expensive.

So when I cross the border, I take two packs and sell

or trade them for something.

- Hello. - Hello.

- I'm looking for Mr. Simkhe. - That's me.

That's good.

- How can I help you? - I have a package for you.

From Ivan Popovych.

For you to pass on to Vasile, in Sighetu.

Okay, I'll pass it on.

It's okay.

Good luck and all the best.

I've been doing this for at least 13 years.

I take the bike and go.

I could even walk.

- So I take the bike and go... - Hello.

I cross the border to go to the synagogue.

What channel is the interview for?

It's a film.

I go by bike because it's faster than by car.

It depends, sometimes 20 minutes, sometimes 30...

What's the film about?

Excuse me, what's the film about?

It's a documentary film about klezmer music.

How interesting!

I found some photos in my attic...

Photos, letters... I live next door, I can show them to you.

I was repairing the attic,

changing the boards,

and found these photos and letters.

- They're very well preserved. - Yes.

They were wrapped in a cloth. Rats bit them a bit.

In what language is it written? Yiddish?

In Yiddish with Latin letters.

I think they must have been taken to the ghetto.

Whether they're alive or not...

So many photos and no one knows anything about them.

Yankel and Kristoff had been on the road for almost a week.

The owner of the mules was a man of few words

and he did not bother to hide it.

Yankel was disturbed by so much silence.

He was afraid that he would suspect his deceit,

and to make matters worse, he still didn't have a plan for when they got to the city.

But the mere idea of meeting Taibele outside the shtetl

made him forget all his problems and daydream

while his mule slowly advanced.

On the side of the road, for the first time before his eyes,

a new world took shape.

Solotvyno, August 14th, 2021.

Three more notes for this documentary about klezmer music.

One:

Solotvyno is the last Ukrainian town before the Romanian border.

It turns out that the guy crossing the package

is also the last Jew in this region.

The town synagogue is abandoned, so every Friday,

he crosses to Romania to go to the temple.

I guess that's how he started selling things there

that are cheaper here,

and I suppose that's why Ivan sent the package to him.

Two:

I find another clue about the disappearance of Yiddish,

the ideological one.

In the early 20th century,

two antagonistic political movements arose within Judaism,

Zionism, which proclaimed a territorial Judaism

and the return of Hebrew,

and Bundism, a Marxist organization

representing the Yiddish-speaking working class.

Bundism considered Yiddish as its territory

and in 1905, it declared itself as an anti-Zionist movement.

Hebrew and its supporters identified themselves with Zionism,

while the socialists identified themselves with Yiddish.

Leandro, let's go! Everybody's waiting for you outside.

I'm coming.

Three:

We still haven't found klezmer bands.

Hello Vasile?

Can we meet? I have something for you.

Something they sent you.

Good?

I'll call you.

All good, good luck.

I remember a song,

in which a Jew remembers his difficult life.

- Good afternoon. - Good afternoon, sir.

- How is it going? - Very well, luckily.

- Where are you going? As usual? - Yes, as always.

- What do you have there? - Two packs.

- And that package. - Two packs, as usual.

- All right, have a good trip, see you. - Thanks, Ivan.

ROMANIA

- Hi, Vasi! - How are you?

I'm going to pick up my son.

This is for Juan that... Leave it at... Will you forget?

I won't forget, I'll deliver these personally.

Yeah, you know how things are...

children are not like adults.

However, some adults...

I've been working in the Romanian post office for 37 years.

And aside from this post,

which is my main activity, I also play the violin.

I learned from many musicians,

songs sung in our region, Maramures.

And also songs from Ukraine and Jewish songs.

Playing music, I realized that in our region there are interferences.

In the music and the songs,

as with language, in music there are also interferences.

It's impossible that in a place

where have lived together in the same geographical space,

many and very different people...

that would not take shape...

a culture, music, or something equally important...

a form of sensibility.

Nice, isn't it?

- It doesn't look like klezmer. - No, this is traditional Maramures music.

So why are we filming it?

We continue today's program in Radio Sighet...

with a song that reminds us

of our old colleague and friend, Johnny Popescu.

He first brought to Sighetu Marmatiei,

this band that we're listening now.

We are talking about the Técsői Banda.

At Radio Sighet, we are going to listen to the Técsői Banda from now on,

thanks to Mr. Ivan Popovych,

who so generously sent this CD to the radio.

Yankel saw the first columns of smoke rising on the horizon.

They were the chimneys of the city.

He touched Kristoff's shoulder to show him his discovery.

"How long until the city?" Yankel asked.

Kristoff took a moment to calculate. "Just a few hours", he finally said.

Yankel's heart pounded.

Taibele was happy to meet Yankel again...

to deny it would be unfair.

But not in the same way as him.

Something had changed in her forever upon leaving the village.

Breaking her father's shackles made her feel free for the first time

and she was no longer willing to tie herself to anyone else.

Kristoff was furious when Yankel told him

that his preaching would be postponed for a few days.

Only the promise of a juicy increase in his pay reassured him.

So what was in the package?

A ticket to Romania.

Come on, silly.

Técsői CDs, I already told you.

Yes, but for whom?

For a radio... Lukas hates me.

What are we doing today?

Find fiddlers with Bob.

Will we be able to film them? They're going to kill me otherwise.

Why?

I've been promising them klezmer bands.

I came for milk.

- Can you milk her there? - Yes.

Hi puppy, hi, come here, come...

Come, take this, Florica...

Grigore, did you cut off her horns?

Yes, a little.

Why?

I was afraid that she would hurt someone.

Oh, yeah?

This cow runs when she gets scared.

- Did she hurt? - No, she didn't.

Oh, no?

She didn't even feel it.

When I cut off the horns, the knife bent.

But only the tip. It doesn't hurt there because it's soft.

Half of the horn is soft.

- So it didn't hurt? - Nope.

I came here to the Iza Valley because the music and the traditions

that you can see all around here are more archaic than anywhere else.

People here are very conservative...

That was their sort of self defense mechanism

under communist collectivization

and the destruction of the Greek Orthodox Church.

People here basically retreated into their traditions.

They sort of left the world of tax paying, cash paying

and became the people of the Iza Valley.

It's the only place I can think of where people

walk about in folk costumes

not because they are trying to show off their folk costumes

but because those things are what they call clothing.

Thing that set them apart from everybody else in Romania.

I mean, the music still has a great value to them

as a statement of their personal identity.

"The independent mentality of Maramures", you know?

But the problem with all Jewish folklore is that after the Holocaust

there's no one to ask.

You know, very few people left to ask.

People that were not interested in asking this.

Specially if it was about folk music.

It didn't interest anyone.

You know? Jews didn't have that definition of nationalism

where we needed a folk music

or a folk poetry in our native language.

We had the Bible and we had the classical language of Hebrew

and we have all this stuff that defined us

and we didn't use the same thing that other people use to define their selves

as a border deserving nation.

And...

...by the time we did care anything for it

it was almost too late.

When Jews, in a town like this, needed music, they would go

to the local gypsy musicians

and systematically ask around

with all the gypsy clans that played music

who is around who still remembers any of that.

So, basically you are looking for the last threads

that tie to an identity, the Jewish musical identity.

And here what you find is this negative impression, that use to be filled with Jewish culture.

Yeah, they're gone, but the impression is still there.

Specially in a place like here, where literally a third of Maramures was Jewish

the center of all the towns was Jewish.

And they had... you know they had a very shared culture

the idea that you use fiddle music as an essential part of your daily life.

The fact that Jews had particular melodies

it melts into the general culture that they all call their own.

Some of the melodies that I play which I know is Jewish

are used as wedding marches

they don't call it a Jewish tune, they don't know it as such.

We are trying to understand a whole healthy culture

from the little bits and pieces left in the garbage heap behind.

Which is what we did, and it's ongoing it doesn't stop

I mean even now it's like the year 2021.

It's been a long time since there was a big Yiddish community up here

but the impact that it once had here

it's still here, you know?

It's harder to find

it's less transparent, it's less obvious, you have to dig deep

but if you do, you find a little bit left that you didn't get last time.

You do.

Where did you learn this? Where did you hear it?

Well, from generation to generation and his father also sang these.

- For the Jews? - Sure, these songs come from the Jews.

There used to be many of Jews around here.

Sure...

I have a Jewish song.

- A song of lament? - Jewish, jewish.

In that sense, it's going great.

Last week, we filmed great klezmer bands.

The material is spectacular, very interesting.

Yes, it will be very good.

No, don't worry. The budget will stay as discussed.

Next week, we'll have great shooting days.

Alright, that's agreed. Super. We'll talk on Monday. Bye, bye.

So? What did they say?

Listen, so far we have filmed literally zero klezmer bands.

And they want daily budget reports. I do not know what else to do.

In the 1800 when nationalism became an idea

they said, "Well, you know? What defines you as a nation?"

And they said "Well, we're defined by our language.

We have our folk traditions.

We have our folk poetry.

But also our music can define us a nation."

And you have Bela Bartok, and you have Kodaly in Hungary

people like Enescu in Romania, creating national music.

Jews didn't do that.

Jews were not considered to be a people who had a folk tradition.

They were dispersed communities linked by our language and our religion

but we did not have a claim to the land.

The Nation was Zionist and therefore we were going to create a new folklore

which became Israeli folk dance and stuff.

But we weren't gonna dredge up the old stuff from the old country

which were the shackles of the Goliaths of the Diaspora

Why would you like to feel any sense of what we had in Europe?

That horrible place that had the Holocaust...

We don't want that culture, we don't want that language.

All that is old. We are making a new culture, it's in Israel

It speaks Hebrew, it makes rocket ships.

Klezmer is just a necessary evil.

But it's the only link that, you know

this is a link we have

to the Jewish folk fiddle tradition.

And there is this unfortunate thing called time

and people change with it.

Over this period of years I've suddenly become and old geezer myself.

I don't know how much longer I can keep running around up in these parts

I'll do it while I can.

Here it is, look:

"Scene 35, Viener Park, Day.

It's a sunny day, musicians are on stage.

Music begins.

We are at the Yiddish Culture Festival.

A klezmer band plays".

We didn't shoot that in Vienna.

I marked another one here.

"Here: Tyachiv, Main square. A klezmer band plays.

These are virtuoso musicians.

Then we go with them to their homes."

It was not filmed.

Where was that?

That was in Tyachiv.

And here's one more. "Scene 64, Interior, House.

In Romania with a klezmer band.

Then they play."

It was not filmed. You wrote all that.

But we filmed fiddlers playing klezmer tunes,

that I think were never filmed. I mean...

No, that's fine.

The thing is we promised klezmer bands, and we submitted the script

and none of that has been filmed yet.

Here we have another. "Scene 72."

Again in Romania, another band.

Did I write that? Or did you change it when you translated it?

No, no.

I translated what you sent me into German,

and we submitted it like that, no changes.

Can I see?

What does "kartenspielen" mean?

"They play cards."

Yes, I wrote that.

I don't understand a word.

According to what they say,

there'll be a lot of klezmer bands in Moldova.

The thing is we're not going to make it to Moldova.

Yes, we'll make it to Moldova.

No, we're not going to Moldova.

Dragomiresti, 60.

Sacel, 85.

145...

Borsa, 130.

275...

Wait... Botosani, 260.

535...

Iasi, 140.

675...

And Edinet, 170.

845 kilometers...

What's that, a day's journey?

No way, there's nothing but mountains.

But...

Two days... Two nights, let's say.

What do you think? Shall we go ourselves, if they don't want to come?

- Yes, sure. Will they leave you the van? - Yes.

Will it make it there?

It came from Austria. It should make it.

On the fifth day of waiting for a conference that would never come,

Kristoff assumed that he had been conned.

He imagined possible ways of revenge as consolation.

Then, resigned, he saddled his two mules

and turned back.

Lukas, this is it, right? Does the camera stay with Leandro?

Yes, the camera stays.

We return the rest. It is already spoken with the Rental.

Only this would be missing then.

Good luck with the rest of the trip.

- Have a safe trip. - See ya.

- Bye! - Bye.

Palu, your phone is ringing.

Hello.

Yes...

Yes, I'm Paloma, yes. Who is it?

Oh, how are you?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course.

Yes, I know, in Weimar

Yeah.

Okay.

Who gave it?

Oh, okay. Okay.

Yeah. Aha.

Okay.

Oh, that's very soon.

Okay.

Yeah.

Yeah, that sounds great, but I cannot talk right now.

Maybe it's better if I can call you a little later.

Do you understand some Romanian?

- Yes, do you want me to translate? - Let's see...

It says: "I told you so many times

When you go to the valley,

despite your clever eyes, do not cross alone the alley.

We said it without range, you said it wasn't fair.

But a car driven by a stranger made you fly through the air."

It scares me to laugh at this...

The drawing is worse than my poem.

Are all cemeteries like this here?

No, just this one.

Leaving the shtetl for the first time

was as shocking for Yankel as it was for Taibele.

None of them gave credit to the discoveries

that constantly appeared in front of their eyes.

However, the novelty had a different sign in each of them.

Unknown people, different customs,

music, food...

were for Yankel part of an amazing landscape

where he could share adventures with Taibele.

They called you for a gig?

Yes, I was going to tell you.

But there's nothing confirmed yet.

Is it near?

No, in Weimar, Germany.

What did Lukas tell you exactly? Was he mad at you?

What I told you.

That he had lost hope of finding what I told him we would find.

That he didn't want to continue wasting money,

and that it was better to go back to Austria

and finish the film with what we have.

For her, it was different.

The new ways of understanding the world that she was discovering,

whetted her appetite in an uncontrollable way.

The scriptures were no longer the only way to access knowledge.

Little by little, her past acquired

an ancient, expired, fossilized color.

Yankel, Taibele sometimes thought sadly,

was part of that past.

And the sound recorder?

Shall we go?

So they call it Moldovan but they speak Romanian?

Yes. It's the same language,

but in some places, Moldovans still use the Cyrillic alphabet.

What's the plan when we arrive?

Do you have the contact of the musicians there?

Some of them, but it's like here.

If you knock the door, they always welcome you,

but it's almost impossible to schedule something in advance.

No, of course, I have it with me.

Okay.

And how many shows do you think?

Okay. Okay.

Okay. That's great.

Okay, let's do that, then. I, um.

I can call you tomorrow.

I'll get on the road like at, and that's fine.

Oh, yeah, I have plans but...

Yeah, I love this one.

Um, so let me call you tomorrow.

And we keep on talking.

Yeah, that's great.

Okay. Thank you. Thank you.

- Coffee? - Thank you.

- You're welcome. Shall we? - Yes.

Did you find how to get there?

I don't know, but I found a blog that is really funny.

It's impossible to understand, and has amazing photos.

Do you need help?

No, the maps and the info are here.

I trust we'll be okay.

What are you reading?

Some stories the Yiddish teacher gave me.

Remember when you came to film the class... that she was reading?

- Yes. - That one.

- The one about the gravedigger? - Yes, Yankel.

How does it end?

I don't know, I have a few pages left.

September 19th, 2021.

We're crossing the Moldovan border tomorrow.

Yesterday, I read in Susana Skura's book another fragment that I quote...

Yet another clue to the death of Yiddish,

the one about gender.

It reads, "Religious education and knowledge were meant for men.

Schools and study houses were exclusively for them.

The sacred language was associated with the masculine world.

On the other hand, Yiddish was the language of mothers and the home.

Yiddish culture, over one thousand years old,

was alien to the practices of the State administration,

and above all, to the experiences of borders, police, and wars,

to mention only those most directly linked to violence.

With the rise of Zionism, Hebrew began to be associated with youth,

strength, and with the hope of a promising future,

while a tendency to feminize Yiddish was gradually strengthened,

to characterize it as a bearer of feminine attributes,

of weakness and impurity."

- What's up? - I got it.

- You bought it? - Yes.

- When? - For tomorrow.

- So soon? - Yes.

I thought you were going to... No, I thought that...

I have...

The first show in three days and I have a two-day trip.

Okay. I thought we were going to Moldova, and you'd go from there.

I won't make it.

- I'd love to, but... - How long will it take?

It takes two and a half days.

- It's a really long trip. - Yes.

Yankel looked up at the sky. Soon it would be dawn.

The dark vault was still crowded with stars.

Blue, red, yellow, large and small, fixed and flashing.

It seemed that up there, little importance was given

to the fact that a certain gravedigger's assistant had decided

to fool everyone to get what he wanted.

Seen from above, even Taibele's departure,

that tore up Yankel's heart,

seemed to leave the universe indifferent.

Comets, planets, and asteroids would continue to spin

around whatever they orbited.

In the cosmic confines, worlds were still dying and being born.

Spinoza's words were repeated over and over again.

The divine substance stretched out

and had no beginning or end...

following the unbroken chain of causes and effects.

And Yankel, with his inevitable fate, was part of it.

Yankel tried to remember the events

that had brought him there.

The list of deceived people was long.

First Taibele, then the rabbi, his own grandmother, the gravedigger.

Finally, poor Kristoff.

Yankel buried himself in the pit of his memories.

And from there, he could barely see the city

that appeared for the first time before his eyes.

But from another perspective, not everything was lost.

Get up, you can't be here all day.

He had finally made it out of the shtetl,

and for the first time,

Yankel felt that his destiny was not written.

Hi, Lukas. How are you?

I hope you had a good return home. I'm in Moldova.

I wanted to tell you two things.

The first is that I'm about to sell the van

to stay a few more days here, because I want to continue filming.

And the second...

I mailed you a hard drive with what we filmed.

I'll send you another one when I fill it.

I hope you received it. Regards.

The postman got off his mule

and knocked on the door of the first house.

It seemed abandoned.

The windows were broken and covered with boards.

While waiting for an answer,

he noticed that the rest of the houses in the shtetl were the same.

The village seemed devastated by a natural disaster.

An old woman's voice asked who was there.

"Mail", the postman answered.

After handing over the envelope, he asked the old woman

what the hell had happened there.

"A few weeks ago, the rabbi's daughter disappeared", the old woman said.

"The man and his followers raided all the houses

accusing men and women of hiding his daughter.

They devastated everything, they seemed possessed by That One",

said the old woman pointing at the ground.

"Did they find the girl?" the postman asked.

"No", said the old woman.

The postman shrugged his shoulders, heeled his mule,

and waved goodbye.

The old woman sat down at the table.

She opened the envelope.

It was Yankel's letter.

September 22th, 2021.

Dear Grandma,

Five days ago, Bessarabia ceased to be an imaginary place in my head

built upon your stories

and began to have colors, smells and sounds.

It's hard to accept that I won't be able to share it with you anymore.

I came to Moldova without knowing that I was coming

to our family's place of origin.

I should have known.

But you always called it Bessarabia.

Once you told me that looking for our roots

was an underground way of going through the branches.

When I understood that our blood had been mixed

for so many generations in this place,

I thought I was going to feel some kind of ancestral connection with the place.

As if there were some affective gene resting

that was going to wake up by seeing this land for the first time.

You must be laughing. Obviously none of that happened.

I guess that the ties one creates with the land do not pass through blood.

But something in the people here

reminded me of how I felt when I was with you.

And I felt you close.

I miss you, Grandma.

It's been a long journey, and it's not over yet.

You should see me, I still film weddings.