Dybbuk in Detroit

To the Hebraic incantations of Elohim and Adonai a sacred promise was made in Detroit one night last week. The Jew Sender ben Henie swore before Jehovah that, if his unborn child should be a girl, he would marry her to the son of his faithful neighbor Nissen. But Nissen died leaving his son poor while Sender grew rich and increasingly greedy. The holy promise was broken, just as it was in Sholom Ansky's mystical drama. This time The Dybbuk was having its U. S. premiere as an opera, which has had considerable success during the past two years in Europe. The music was by Italian Composer Lodovico Rocca, who spent four years in Palestine studying Hebrew moods and chants. The first production in English was proudly staged last week by Detroit's Civic Opera in Masonic Auditorium.

On a stage strangely dark the pact between Sender and Nissen was pledged in such a leisurely prolog that many a Detroiter shifted uneasily, began to fear for the evening to come. First act picked up when the scene changed to the interior of a synagog. Comics were the bearded batlans who droned their prayers for a kopek or two, spent their earnings on vodka. A tragic, pale-faced figure was Hanan, Nissen's son, torn between the Talmud and the cabalistic mysticism which used to be feared by all good Jews. By prayers and fasting Hanan had hoped finally to win Sender's daughter Leah. Instead he dropped dead calling on the unholy powers as Sender appeared, rowdily announcing Leah's betrothal to a rich merchant's son.

Because the opera was supposed to be in English, the advance libretto sale had been light. But during intermission hundreds of Detroiters rushed into the lobby, glad to pay for some guide to its meaning. The second act spoke more eloquently for itself. Scene was the village square on the day of the marriage ceremonies. All the ghetto rabble was there, begging for alms, food, drink. One gay interlude came when a ragged peasant orchestra evoked a reedy little tune from the big band in the pit. Thereafter the tension grew grimmer. The beggars danced madly while Leah swept in to whirl despairingly with a groveling hunchback, a hideous, pawing old crone. Rocca's orchestra reached a frenzied climax as Leah faced her bridegroom, suddenly screamed like one gone mad. Just as abrupt was the hush when the verdict was passed. "A dybbuk has her ... a dybbuk, a dybbuk. . . ." Curtain went down with every instrument in the orchestra simulating the horror of that dread word.

According to ancient Hebrew lore a dybbuk is the restless spirit of one who has died committing a sin. Such a spirit, it once was believed, could return to earth, take heathenish possession of an innocent mortal. In the opera last week it was the tortured Hanan who bewitched Leah. To exorcise his spell she was led before an ancient rabbi to whom Sender admitted his treachery, gladly consented to renounce half his riches. Persistent prayers were said over Leah, who dropped lifeless when Hanan's spirit left her. Finale came with their love duet, frankly lyrical, typically Italian, which brought Detroiters cheering to their feet.

The few who seemed concerned with the music's real merit had praise for the choruses by singers from the Art of Musical Russia. Lovers of the theatre pointed to the beggar's dance directed by Russian Maria Yakovleva, to the second-act climax played with sure-fire effect by the Detroit Symphony men. Conductor for the occasion was dynamic Franco Ghione, who had traveled from Italy especially for The Dybbuk, seemed to have the score completely at his finger tips. Conventional was the pale-faced Hanan, interpreted by Frederick Jagel, Brooklyn-born tenor from the Metropolitan Opera. Highest-priced singer was Rosa Raisa, whose Jewish blood helped her to look the part of Leah. Even so, her top notes were raspy, often insecure. The singer who did best by the English text was Contralto Pauline Pierce, a comparative unknown who took the part of Leah's handmaiden.

The Detroiters applauded indiscriminately for Raisa, Jagel, Ghione, raised the loudest tumult when Ghione made for the wings, led out Thaddeus Wronski, the stalky, middle-aged Polish basso who has long fathered the cause of opera in Detroit. Wronski made his first attempt as a producer in 1923 with an outdoor Aida in the University Stadium. That night it was so hot that the grease paint streamed down the singers' faces. When the performance was about to begin a wind squall broke, blew down the Egyptian temple which was supposed to serve as the first-act scenery. Faithful to the stage directions, Wronski had wanted horses for the second act, engaged them with their drivers from a local coal company called Pittman & Dean. The horses were reasonably patient, but the drivers took too much to drink during the constant delays. Finally they emerged on stage slapping the animals' rumps, shouting boisterously: "Yea, Pittman & Dean! Yea, Pittman & Dean!"

For subsequent performances Impresario Wronski has drilled choruses, directed orchestras, helped build scenery, scoffed at scoffers until now he can command a substantial backing from the citizens of Detroit. Last week he was so excited that he almost swallowed his cigar backstage. After Detroit he took The Dybbuk to Chicago, scheduled it for five performances this week in Manhattan's Carnegie Hall.

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