The power of the Jewish joke

For centuries, Jewish jokes have been the tragicomic response to anti-semitism and persecution, explains Joshua Levine

Two Jews are walking down the street in pre-revolutionary Russia. They pass a church with a sign outside: ‘jews! come in and convert! you will receive ten roubles!’

They look at each other, and one says, ‘I’m doing it. Wait here for me.’

He goes in, while the other waits outside. After twenty minutes, the first man finally emerges from the church.

‘Well?’ says his friend. ‘Have you got the ten roubles?’

‘You people… All you think about is money!’

This is my favourite Jewish joke. Jews just can’t win, it says. They are repeatedly subject to the same old ridiculous accusations. In the same way, Jews campaigning against anti-semitism in the Labour Party have been accused of having a hidden agenda – to smear Jeremy Corbyn and seek revenge for criticism of Israel. Jews with a hidden agenda – how’s that for an age-old accusation? And with Holocaust denial growing, Der Stürmer- style murals in the press and hate crimes reaching record levels, Jews have ample reason to worry about anti-semitism.

But let’s look on the funny side – which Jewish jokes have been doing since Abraham, as Devorah Baum’s new history of the Jewish joke shows. Jewish humour reflects the experience of a group that has suffered relentless persecution. So a dark future for the Jews could produce more good jokes like this one:

A Jew is walking down the street in Nazi Germany when a car pulls up beside him. To his amazement, Hitler steps out and holds a pistol to his head.

‘Get on your knees and eat the dirt, you Jewish pig!’ says Hitler.

The Jew starts nibbling at the pavement. Hitler is soon laughing so hard that he drops his pistol. The Jew picks it up and points it at Hitler.

‘Now it’s your turn, Führer! Eat the dirt!’

When the Jew arrives home that evening, his wife asks him about his day.

‘Meh, so-so,’ he says. ‘But you’ll never guess who I had lunch with…’

Jews have long understood that humour, like tragedy, is an expression of sorrow. In difficult times, humour helps us cope. An Israeli study of 55 Jewish survivors of Auschwitz revealed that humour had been absolutely crucial to their survival.

‘We made a joke out of every situation,’ said one survivor. ‘How can you live any other way?’ Another survivor remembered hearing this joke in the camp:

Two Jews meet in Warsaw, and one of them is eating perfumed soap. The other asks, ‘Moishe, why are you eating soap with such a scent?’

He answers, ‘If they turn me into soap, I might as well smell nice.’

It’s hard to imagine a darker joke, yet its intent – to keep the human spirit alive amid unspeakable horrors – imbues it with positivity. Which, in turn, makes it funny. Jews were accustomed to dangerous, unstable existences long before the Holocaust. Shtetl- and ghetto-dwellers lived lives of practical simplicity, accepting disaster as an occupational hazard – and these values were handed down the generations:

Shmuley was on his death bed. Almost blind, he called out for his sons. ‘Itzhak, are you there?’ ‘Yes, of course, Poppa!’ said Itzhak, tears in his eyes. ‘David, are you there?’ ‘Don’t leave us, Poppa! Don’t leave us!’ wailed David. ‘Solly, are you there?’ ‘Poppa! I’m here!’ said Solly, gripping his father’s hand. ‘Then who the hell’s minding the shop?’ A focus on the practical didn’t mean Jews weren’t allowed to complain. Complaining – kvetching – was a pleasurable way of life for some:

A census-taker knocks on the door of Jacob Singer’s house. Jacob answers.

‘Does Jacob Singer live here?’ says the official. ‘No,’ says Jacob. ‘So what’s your name?’ ‘Jacob Singer.’ ‘But you just said Jacob Singer doesn’t live here.’ ‘You call this living?’ Jewish humour can be profound or it can be trivial. But like the religion from which it emerged, it tends to be curious and questioning. At its best, it subverts expectations and finds new angles and alternative ways of viewing a subject:

An old Jewish couple comes to see a lawyer.

‘What can I do for you, Mr and Mrs Rosenbaum?’ says the lawyer.

‘We want a divorce,’ replies Mr Rosenbaum.

‘Do you mind if I ask how old you are?’ ‘I’m 96 and my wife is 92.’ ‘And why now?’ ‘We were waiting for the children to die.’ Jewish humour offers no single story and no easy answers. It acknowledges complexity, nuance and uncertainty. Even when a joke is rooted in misery, when it seems the Jews just can’t win, the joke itself becomes an act of hope:

A survivor dies and goes to heaven where he tells God a Holocaust joke. God doesn’t laugh. ‘Ah well,’ says the survivor. ‘I suppose you had to be there.’

Not all Jews are funny. A lot of the Jews I know aren’t at all amusing, while one or two non-jewish friends can reduce me to hysterics. But that doesn’t stop me finding this joke very funny indeed: Two gentiles meet in the street. ‘Hello, Peter. How are you?’ ‘Oh hello, Steven. I’m very well, thank you.’

‘Even when a joke is rooted in misery, it becomes an act of hope’