The only Jew in the village: what it’s like to be the only Jew in a production of Fiddler on the Roof

"So…did your parents use a matchmaker then?" I was asked in a lecture theatre. It was my first day of rehearsals for Fiddler on the Roof at the University of York, the city of which isn't exactly known for its Jewish cultural scene, having incited medieval England's greatest pogrom in 1190. I was astounded when the most famous and explicitly Jewish piece of theatre of all time was chosen to be the final play of term. I felt compelled to audition, despite the fact the last time I had sung was at my bat mitzvah. I naively thought it would just be a brilliant laugh and an amusing story to tell my friends back in the shtetl of north-west London.

That initial naivety set the tone. This experience wasn't destined to be a punch line to a joke, something more serious was happening. As you'd expect, there were lots of questions around rituals that came to me, but there were funny things too. When I suggested a Kiddush cup for the Shabbat scene, the stage manager took me aside and explained that for health and safety reasons we couldn't burn candles in a wine glass. When the beautiful blonde girl tasked with playing Tzeitel, the eldest daughter, asked me what a 'fruma' meant I simply explained that it was a religious person. "So it's a serious term of respect," she replied earnestly. "Erm… well not really," I murmured, holding back a faint giggle and with no idea how to explain why that was the wrong conclusion.

The last song of Fiddler is 'Anatevka', a sombre to the point of miserable tune that laments the end of shtetl life. On stage, singing as a company, "soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place", it struck me that whilst I speak English, date non-Jews and am perfectly happy going clubbing on a Friday night, basically I am as far away from shtetl life as one can get. Maybe in a way I'm still a stranger in this new place. Well meaning and keen drama enthusiasts, everyone was trying to give life to these characters, but part of me suspected they were really just playing dress-up as strange creatures of the past. I never felt more acutely "other", watching people pretend to be what I actually am: Jewish.

Being part of this experience was such a bizarre, confronting and quite frankly hilarious manifestation of that strangeness. Yet it wasn't sadness that struck me, quite the opposite. There is no joy like that of watching a young lad from Scarborough master a Yiddish accent, or the director screaming that "everyone absolutely must try this thing called challah bread". It also gave me hope. The musical was put on by people with no ulterior motive because they thought a Jewish story – my story – was a story worth telling. As Yeats said: "There are no strangers here, only friends you haven't yet met."

By Hannah Radley

Header photo: Otterbein University Theatre and Dance production of Fiddler on the Roof

This essay was shortlisted for the JR Young Journalist Prize 2020. Follow Hannah on Twitter: @Hanradders97.

Read the other prize entries on the JR blog.