Fiddler On The Roof -1971- -

As the first gray light touched the rooftops of Anatevka, Sholem began to hum. Then Golde appeared at the edge of the field, wrapped in her shawl, and she hummed too. Then Mendel. Then Fruma. Then the rabbi.

“Yes,” he said. “Now.”

He was thinking of the old fiddler, Yussel, who used to perch on the eaves of the synagogue during weddings, scraping out melodies that made even the goats weep. Yussel had died last winter. No one had taken his place. The roof felt quiet now. fiddler on the roof -1971-

“Where shall we go?” cried Fruma, the baker’s wife. As the first gray light touched the rooftops

The sun bled gold over the dusty rutted road that led into Anatevka. To any outsider, it was a smear of crooked wooden houses, a synagogue, a milk shed, and a roof that always seemed to be sighing under the weight of memory. But to Sholem the dairyman, it was the center of the world. Then Fruma

The Fiddler’s Last Tune

By dawn, the whole village stood in the wheat field, humming the fiddler’s last tune.