From depth I call to you

Verdi was down and out—his wife and daughter dead, his latest opera a complete failure, his decision never to compose again firm and steady—when he was literally shoved a libretto of “Nabucco” into his hands. He came home and threw the libretto on a table in a gesture almost violent in its despair—he had decided never to compose again.

Yet one line caught his eye: “Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate.” He picked up the pages and read them. Then again. And then there was a night, a sleepless night filled with tormenting thoughts and the echoes of ethereal music. And there was morning, another day with emptiness and despair. And another one. And not on the first day, not on the second day, but one measure a day, then one line a day, slowly and painstakingly, “Nabucco” was born.

Just like the main character of Kipling’s poem “If—”, Verdi built his opera and rebuilt himself with his worn-out tools.

“Nabucco,” an opera profoundly sympathetic to Jews, was an instant success. It swept through Europe, carrying Verdi on its glorious wings just as the thoughts of Hebrew slaves carried their lamentation and anguish. Verdi went on to compose “Rigoletto,” “Aida,” and “La Traviata.”

It is interesting to know that Abraham Goldfaden, a founder of Yiddish theater—its legend, its creator, its father, and its orphan—was very keen on borrowing famous melodies from other composers for his operas. Thus, the Yiddish theater scene came to know Beethoven, Offenbach, and even Wagner—all sung in Yiddish, of course.

However, when Goldfaden borrowed Verdi for one of his creations, the result was worthy of a Jewish joke: one day his theater arrived in a town with an impressive show that included a march from Verdi’s “Aida.” The show was a smashing success, and the whole town went to see it. After the Yiddish theater left the town, another theater came—a gentile one this time. And not only was this theater gentile, but it was also an opera theater. And what were they bringing? You guessed it—they brought Verdi’s “Aida.” Needless to say, the whole town was convinced that Verdi had stolen the music from Goldfaden!

And in the beginning of the twentieth century, the aria from “La Traviata,” “Addio del passato,” became a beloved Jewish tango—with Jewish lyrics, of course.

It is interesting to contemplate all those convergences and transpositions of destinies and influences, both of men and of music, but one thing is obvious: if Verdi had not written “Nabucco” out of the depths of his despair, we would have to live, to love, and to raise our children without one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written.

And as tempting as it is to say that rising out of despair, rebuilding after catastrophe, is a profoundly Jewish experience, it would not be true. Rising out of despair, rebuilding after loss, is a profoundly human experience.

But what makes this story Jewish is this: rising out of the ashes of despair and making yourself whole again is a beautiful thing. Rising out of the ashes of despair and making the world whole again is a Jewish thing.

The whole philosophy of Tikkun Olam—mending the world—is in this story of Verdi and “Nabucco,” a story of a man broken by fate, yet capable of finding within himself a light that he transformed into music that, centuries later, still lights up our world.