The Timeless Relief of Jewish Humour

How to Tell a Schlemiel from a Schlimazl

Marx Brothers 1946, WIki Commons

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Sigmund Freud once famously wrote that all Jewish humour is self-parody, that Jews make themselves the butt of their jokes. He may have been thinking of the sages of Chelm who were so racked with worry that they couldn’t function properly. So they decided to pay the beadle 2 roubles a week to worry for them. Until they realised, that now he was earning 2 roubles a week, he had nothing to worry about.

Freud, as we'd expect, diagnosed Jewish humour in psychological terms. Jews self-deprecated as a way of shrugging off any sense of inferiority they had as an oppressed people. But Freud was only writing about a specific sort of Jewish humour; the Yiddish humour of his time and place and, even so, he was only partially correct. There are many Jewish jokes which, far from being self-deprecating, present a sort of Jewish exceptionalism.

Some are almost Talmudic in their sophistry. Like the Jewish pauper and the Polish nobleman travelling on the train from Minsk to Pinsk. (All Jewish train jokes take place on a journey from Minsk to Pinsk.) The two men had been travelling opposite each other, in silence, all morning. Eventually the nobleman got out his lunch hamper, his caviar, champagne, fine meats, and cakes. So the Jewish pauper took out his lunch too, a crust of bread and a piece of herring. The nobleman looked at the Jew’s lunch and laughed. “They say you Jews are so clever. But look at what you are eating and look at what I am eating. Tell me, what is it that makes you Jews think you are so clever?”

The Jew pointed to his scraps of herring. “It’s the herring”, he said. “We Jews are so smart because we eat herring.” The nobleman scoffed. “Nonsense”. “It’s true”, said the Jew. “If you don’t believe me, try my herring, I guarantee you will immediately be much smarter. Here, take it, try it. And I’ll finish what you are eating.”

So they swapped lunches. The Jewish pauper sat munching the nobleman’s fancy foods and forbidden meats, the best meal he’d ever had. The noble took a few cautious bites of the herring. He waited.  After a few minutes he said,  “Nothing’s happening. I don’t feel any smarter.” He scowled angrily at the Jew. “It’s not the herring, is it?”

The Jewish pauper finished his meal with gusto and wiped his mouth. “You see, “he said, “It’s working already.”

Freud was not the only person to misunderstand the nature of Jewish humour. In the 19^th century the French Orientalist Joseph Renan wrote that Semitic people, among whom he included Jews, were completely devoid of curiosity and the ability to laugh. The Scottish essayist Thomas Carlyle similarly declared that Jews had no humour and had never shown any trace of it throughout their history.  Despite this remark being the product of nothing more than Carlyle’s avowed antisemitism, it was enough to provoke Chief Rabbi Hermann Adler to respond to both men. He published an article in The Eclectic Magazine in 1893 in which he admitted that there had been some ancient nations, like the Assyrians and the Egyptians who had been devoid of humour. This, however, he insisted, did not apply to the Jews.

Adler likened Jewish humour to “a weapon with which a beneficent Maker has provided his feeble creatures whereby they have been able to survive in the fierce struggle for existence.” Like Freud he saw humour as the means through which Jews could transcend the misery of their existence. We turn to humour, for a moment’s escape.

Jewish humour today has a much greater profile than it did in the days of Adler and Freud. Largely because so many Jews are prominent in the entertainment business, particularly in America. I read recently that 80% of the most famous nationally known humourists in America are Jewish, even though Jews make up only 3% of the population. Of course, the figure of 80% depends on how we define ‘nationally known humourists’, but even if the number is far smaller, Jewish humour is still pretty prevalent in America today. And Freud would be pleased to know that much of it is, and always has been, self-deprecating; from Groucho Marx’s refusal to join any club that would have him as a member to Larry David’s opening line, “You’re going to be very disappointed.”

Freud was right to say that Jewish humour is a way of coping with adversity. It is true today just as it was at the beginning of the 20^th century, when it offered an opportunity to impoverished young Jews from immigrant families. Like boxing, entertainment was one of those career choices open to a young person who hadn’t been educated into a career or profession, or whose family had no money to set them up in business . If you were tough and ambitious, you could become a boxer. If you were quick witted, you could go onto the stage.

Adler was correct too, when he argued that Jews have always had a sense of humour. It goes as far back as the Bible, though biblical humour tends to be situation comedy rather than stand-up or one-liners. Like the scene in the Garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve had been found out after eating the forbidden fruit. “Did you eat the fruit” demanded the Almighty of Adam. “That woman you made for me, she gave it to me,” he pleaded. The Almighty turned to Eve: “What have you done?” She pointed to the snake. “The serpent tricked me!” she cried. The poor old snake, with nobody else to blame, took the brunt of the punishment.

Or like the scene with Balaam’s donkey, who refused to push his way past the angel that his master could not see. Tired of being beaten, he opened his mouth and spoke. “Aren’t I your donkey who you’ve ridden on all this time, have I ever dared do anything like this to you before?” Balaam was so gobsmacked at hearing the donkey speak that he could barely utter the single word “No.” And there is Adler’s example, taken from the Book of Kings. Elijah was provoking the idolatrous priests of Baal to call upon their god to send fire down from heaven. “Shout louder”, he urged, “He is a god isn’t he?  Perhaps he’s talking to someone, or travelling. Maybe he’s asleep - he’ll wake up.”

But for me the biblical scene that wins the comedy prize is in the Book of Esther. Queen Esther, the King and his villainous Prime Minister, Haman, are all in the Queen’s sitting room. Esther tells the King that he has been tricked by Haman into decreeing that her people, the Jews, are to be wiped out. Furious, the King storms out, into the garden to cool off and decide what to do. Haman, begging for his life, leaps onto the sofa where Esther is sitting. As he does so the King comes back in and sees Haman crouching over her, imploring her. The King is outraged. “You even want to ravish the Queen while I am in the house!” he yells. It’s slapstick, farce, comedy all rolled into one.

Years later, after all the books of the Bible had been written, the Talmud spoke up in favour of comedy. It told the story of a certain Rabbi Beroka the Seer, who was a good friend of the immortal prophet, Elijah. One day they were in the market when the Rabbi asked the Prophet, “Is there anyone here worthy of entering the World to Come - eternity?” Elijah pointed to two people. The rabbi went across to them. “What is your profession?” he asked. “We are jesters” they said,; “we cheer people up.” It seems that the World to Come, the reward for the righteous, is not reserved for the pious, the saintly or the pure of heart. It is reserved for jesters, for comedians, because they cheer people up.

Jewish humour has a long history, far longer than Carlyle or Renan could contemplate. It continued from the Talmud into medieval times. Abraham ibn Ezra was a wise and erudite, 12^th century poet, philosopher, bible scholar and astronomer. He only had one disadvantage. He couldn’t get his life together. He was dogged by ill fortune. He spent his life wandering across Europe, seeking out new patrons as he went. He would write bible commentaries and poems for them but it would always end in tears. He relied on his sense of humour to drown out his misfortunes:

If I sold candles, the sun would never go down,
If I sold funeral shrouds, people wouldn’t die ,
If I sold arms, enemies would be reconciled and not make war.

In Yiddish, someone like Ibn Ezra, whose life is plagued by bad luck, is known as a schlimazl. The word is often confused with the similar sounding shlemiel. It’s not too hard to tell the difference though, between a schlemiel and a schlimazel. A schlemiel is the one who is always spilling his soup. A schlimazel is the one he always spills it over.

In these dark days it is more important than ever not to lose sight of the brief, cathartic benefits of humour.