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Sabine vs. Aviva: Translation and Popular Fiction in Yiddish and Hebrew

Sabine vs. Aviva : traduction et fiction populaire en yiddish et en hébreu
סאבינע ואביבה: תרגום וספרות פופולרית ביידיש ובעברית
Naomi Brenner

Résumés

À la fin de l’année 1946, une affaire inhabituelle a été présentée au juge Eliezer Malhi à Tel Aviv. Le journaliste Yehuda Ya‘akovi (Novik) a poursuivi l’éditeur Alexander Mozes et le distributeur David Topel pour avoir publié Aviva, un roman-feuilleton populaire en hébreu. Aviva, selon la poursuite, n’était pas une œuvre originale, mais une traduction non créditée et non autorisée du roman yiddish à succès Sabine, qui avait été publié en plusieurs fois en Pologne par le journal yiddish de Varsovie Haynt en 1937. Ce procès a été plus qu’un épisode coloré de l’histoire de la culture populaire hébraïque. Au lendemain de l’Holocauste, il a mis en évidence les relations juridiques et culturelles complexes entre la traduction et l’original, le yiddish et l’hébreu, et la « haute » et la « basse » littérature. Cet article démontre comment ces romans populaires mais oubliés depuis longtemps ont remis en question les concepts d’auteur et de traduction, identifiant un moment clé où le shund (fiction « trash ») fait partie de la culture hébraïque.

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  • 1 I would like to thank the participants in the LJTRAD project conference in August 2021 for their he (...)

1In December 1946, the Hebrew press in Palestine noted a case before Judge Eliezer Malhi in the Tel Aviv municipal court. Journalist Yehuda Ya‘akovi (earlier Leyb Novik) sued printer Alexander Mozes and distributor David Topel for publishing Aviva, a serialized novel in Hebrew. Aviva, the suit claimed, was not an original work but an uncredited and unauthorized translation of the bestselling Yiddish novel Sabine, which had been published in installments by the Warsaw Yiddish newspaper Haynt in 1937. Ya‘akovi, one of the few surviving members of the cooperative that published Haynt, argued that the translation violated his copyright. Mozes, who published a great deal of popular fiction, argued Aviva was no longer Sabine because it had been thoroughly rewritten for a Hebrew audience.1

  • 2 Rojanski, 2020, p. 8.

2This legal case highlights several aspects of Yiddish and translation that are often overlooked. First, it demonstrates that Yiddish and Yiddish culture were very much present in Mandatory Palestine in the mid-1940s. Over the course of the early decades of the twentieth century, the revival of the Hebrew language became closely associated with the Zionist movement and Yiddish was increasingly seen by Zionist ideologues as a diasporic language antithetical to the national project. Throughout the 1920s, as Hebrew became better established in the yishuv, the Jewish community in Palestine, immigrants were pressured to adopt Hebrew and to reject Yiddish. Rachel Rojanski argues that by the late 1930s and 1940s, the general public in Palestine had little interest in the question of Yiddish, though “the image of the Israeli leadership as zealous opponents of Yiddish became fixed in the public memory.”2 But this case highlighted intimate connections between Hebrew and Yiddish fiction, provoking questions about the place of Yiddish culture in Mandatory Palestine in the aftermath of the Nazi genocide.

  • 3 Chaver, 2004; Drucker Bar-Am 2021; Pinsker, 2020; Rojanski, 2020.
  • 4 Ben-Ari 2006; Rosenberg 1999; Shavit 1999.

3Second, this case spotlights the realm of popular fiction, or what is often called shund, trivial literature, pulp fiction, or non-canonical literature. Recent scholarship has illuminated the place of Yiddish culture in Mandatory Palestine and in Israel, but it has focused primarily on the press, theatre, and belletristic texts.3 Despite efforts by Hebrew critics to keep what they called sifrut kelokelet (inferior literature) or shund (trash) out of Palestine, this sort of popular fiction became increasingly available in Hebrew by the late 1930s, with many translations and adaptations of popular novels from Yiddish, Hungarian, and other languages.4 Relatively few Yiddish words were used in the Hebrew press in the interwar period, but the word shund appeared in many articles railing against popular, mass-market fiction. While not all Hebrew shund could be traced back to a Yiddish progenitor, the phenomenon of popular fiction was blamed on diasporic Yiddish culture.

  • 5 Barthes, 1977, p. 146.
  • 6 Said, 1983, p. 135.
  • 7 Silveira Brisolara, 2011, p. 112.
  • 8 Lefevere, 1992; Venuti, 2008.

4Finally, the Sabine/Aviva case raises questions about the originality and ownership of fictional texts. Modern literary cultures often assume that a literary text is a unique expression of an individual author’s skill and talent, a legacy of the concepts of genius and originality in nineteenth-century Romanticism. Literary critics have challenged originality, arguing, for example, that the text is “a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash,”5 or that “the originality of contemporary literature in its broad outlines resides in the refusal of originality, or primacy, to its forebears.”6 But originality has continued to shape the perception and reception of translated texts, which are often evaluated based on their success in transmitting existing texts.7 Both fidelity and fluency have been privileged as the goals of translation, even as critics have advocated for the cultural and literary significance of rewriting and translation.8 Perhaps most relevant to the case of Sabine/Aviva is the fact that in literary and legal spheres, translations are and are not seen as original. By nature, they are related to existing texts, but they are also new texts in their own right.

5Neither Sabrina nor Aviva demonstrate the kind of originality or innovation that is often prized by literary critics or championed in copyright cases, whether as a literary work or translation. In court, these formulaic texts challenged established distinctions between original and translation as they confounded concepts of authorship. This long-forgotten case shows the limitations of the legal and cultural efforts to regulate Hebrew popular fiction and marks a key moment in which shund becomes part of Hebrew culture.

“But anyone … familiar with the alef-beys—/ Reads only Sabine9

  • 9 Excerpt from satirical poem (Segal, 1937, p. 3).

6One of the texts at the center of this court case was Sabine: roman fun a kranken-shvester (Sabine: a novel about a nurse), a popular novel published in installments in Warsaw in 1937. Like many popular series at the time, each installment was released as a small booklet, available for the low price of 5 groshen (groszy) at local booksellers and kiosks. Over the course of 100 installments and nearly 2000 pages, it chronicles the trials and tribulations of Sabine, a beautiful young woman who buries her mother on the first page and is cast out into a cruel world. Contemplating suicide, Sabine is saved by the handsome and wealthy Leon Kayzerstein, and the pair soon pledges their undying love to each other. A variety of villains intervene to keep the lovers apart. Filled with dastardly subplots, mistaken identities, and more, the novel aims to captivate its readers and tempt them into buying the next installment.

Figure 1 – cover of Sabine, Warsaw 1937

Figure 1 – cover of Sabine, Warsaw 1937

With thanks to the National Library of Israel

  • 10 Gelder, 2004, p. 15.
  • 11 Bloom, 2002, p. 16–17.
  • 12 Cawelti, 1976, p. 14.

7Sabine follows a common model for popular fiction in Yiddish and in other languages: it is genre fiction, which is to say that it follows well-defined formulas for adventure-romance novels aimed at a broad audience. Ken Gelder suggests that “popular fiction has less to do with discourses of creativity and originality and more to do with production and sheer hard work. The key paradigm for identifying popular fiction is not creativity, but industry.”10 Clive Bloom adds that serialized novels were conceived as commercial entertainment products, the “expression of mass, industrial and consumer society” with short shelf lives.11 There is no doubt that novels like Sabine were published as commercial products, but that does not preclude their creativity. Adventure novels, romances, detective fiction, and other genres that appeared from the second half of the nineteenth century transformed publishing and reading practices throughout Europe because they offered readers new kinds of entertainment. As John G. Cawelti explains, “formulaic works necessarily stress intense and immediate kinds of excitement and gratification as opposed to the more complex and ambiguous analyses of character and motivation that characterize mimetic literature.”12 Serialized novels like Sabine created fast-paced plots and familiar characters designed to appeal to a mass readership. But as we will see, they were also molded to suit their cultural context.

  • 13 Shmeruk, 1983, p. 329.
  • 14 Cohen, 200, p. 202.
  • 15 Mayzl, 1933, p. 1–2.
  • 16 Kacyzne, 1937, p. 8.

8In the 1930s, many Yiddish critics saw this kind of fiction as a serious problem for Yiddish literature. Chone Shmeruk remarks that the history of shund literature in Yiddish is essentially a history of the fight against shund.13 Critic Nakhmen Mayzl, for example, dismissed most popular fiction as “mass-produced pieced-together ‘novels’ made according to a definite ‘recipe’ by anonymous novelists or by writers who are ashamed to put their real names on this suspect merchandise.”14 Some critics faulted the writers who produced this kind of material: Kadya Molodovsky proposed that Warsaw’s PEN club sanction members who published shund under pseudonyms.15 Others blamed the Yiddish press: Alter Kacyzne railed against Haynt and Moment for catering to the lowest literary tastes with serialized shund like Sabine and Regina.16

  • 17 Shmeruk, 1983, p. 333.
  • 18 Yehiel, 1938, p. 2.

9Though its literary merits were questioned, Sabine was wildly popular in Poland and in Palestine. Serialized novels typically ran for as long as they attracted readers, relying on the episodic nature of the plot to expand or contract the narrative based on market demand. Sabine, with its 100 installments, suggests that Yiddish readers were eager to buy each booklet as it appeared on news-stands. Journalist A. Pshepyorka estimated that an “artistic work” would sell no more than 200 copies in Yiddish in the 1930s, but 100,000 copies of booklets of Sabine would be immediately snapped up from news-stands.17 The Yiddish publishing hub in Warsaw also exported its books to readers living in a variety of different places. In the Hebrew press in Palestine in early 1938, journalists noted the demand for new installments of Sabine, with crowds of eager readers impatiently surrounding local kiosks in Tel Aviv and Haifa.18 Sabine comes to represent both the popular success of shund and its broad circulation. Despite the ideological opposition to Yiddish in the yishuv, the commercial power and entertainment value of novels like Sabine demonstrate ways in which Yiddish continued to constitute popular culture in Palestine into the 1940s.

“A ‘heroine’ jumped from an airplane at 8000 meters, was shot by 13 bullets, married 18 men…”19

  • 19 Quote from article making fun of serialized novels featuring Aviva (Davar, “Aviva Chozeret”, p. 4)
  • 20 Advertisements for the novel start appearing in newspapers like Ha-aretz in October 1946.

10The other text that was put on trial in late 1946 was the serialized novel Aviva: koroteha shel ma‘apila tse‘irah (Aviva: life of a young illegal immigrant). The slim booklets, featuring a sketch of a pensive young woman wearing a nurse’s cap with a Jewish star, with another star at her neck, are undated. But advertisements promoting the novel suggest that it started appearing on news-stands and kiosks in Palestine in autumn 1946.20 Aviva joined an increasingly crowded field of Hebrew adventure-romance novels that had been serialized since the late 1930s: The Impure One (1937), Tamara (1938), The Captive from Tel Aviv (1939), and more.

Figure 2 – cover of Aviva, Tel Aviv 1946

Figure 2 – cover of Aviva, Tel Aviv 1946

With thanks to the National Library of Israel

11Aviva tells the story of the lovely eponymous heroine, who is left orphaned and penniless in Tel Aviv after her mother’s death. Though Aviva is described as a ma‘apila, an illegal immigrant to British Mandate Palestine, in the novel’s subtitle, surprisingly little connects her to the Jewish community in Palestine yishuv. Aside from her mother’s death, the narrative tells readers nothing about Aviva’s immigration to Palestine nor anything about her life before immigrating. Instead, the novel follows Aviva’s interactions with the Yizra’eli family and other wealthy Jews living in Tel Aviv, who live comfortably with servants and chauffeurs and seem oblivious to virtually all ideologies and tensions of life in Palestine in the early 1940s.

12For anyone who had read Sabine, it would have become apparent very quickly that Aviva is based on the Yiddish novel. Like Sabine, Aviva loses her mother at the very beginning of the serialized novel and tries to support herself by working as a nurse. The streets of Warsaw have been replaced by the streets of Tel Aviv, and Leon Kayzerstein becomes Gid‘on Yizra’eli. But most of these changes are “cosmetic,” which is to say that Hebrew names and Middle Eastern locations replace their Eastern European equivalents, but life in 1940s Palestine is rendered as essentially the same as 1930s Poland. While Aviva begins as a translation of Sabine, it later abandons the Yiddish text, creating new plots and subplots of its own. By the end of the sprawling novel, Aviva reads much more like a narrative inspired by or perhaps modeled on Sabine than what we would typically call a translation of the novel.

  • 21 The term shund also refers to German Schundliteratur, which was the target of literary and cultural (...)
  • 22 Steinberg, 1919, p. 12.
  • 23 Katznelson, 1934, p. 2.
  • 24 Steinman, 1938, p. 2.

13Like their Yiddish counterparts, Hebrew critics railed against popular fiction like Aviva, taking the unusual step of using the Yiddish word shund in the Hebrew press, simultaneously naming a particular kind of writing and blaming it on Yiddish.21 In 1919, Ya‘akov Steinberg cautions against the dangers of the “blossoming of a unique literature, a literature both light and superficial, with counterfeit emotions and lacking thought...” A few lines later, he explains “we have only a borrowed word with which to call this kind of literature: literature of shund.”22 This borrowed word starts to appear frequently in the Hebrew press by the late 1920s, applied as a derogatory term first to theater and soon after to literature, especially novels. The word shund is typically marked as foreign in the newspaper with quotation marks and the phenomenon of popular or trashy fiction is similarly seen as foreign to Hebrew culture. In the 1934 annual meeting of the Histadrut, Barukh Katznelson insisted that shund and its temptations for young readers posed a major threat to Zionist culture.23 By 1938, shund was a regular target of cultural critics in the Hebrew press, as writers such as Eliezer Steinman railed against shund as a plague on literature.24 These articles did not necessarily connect this cultural phenomenon to Yiddish or East European Jewish culture explicitly, but by continuing to use the term shund far more than alternatives such as sifrut kelokelet, they perpetuate the association of Yiddish and Europe more generally with this stigmatized literature.

14None of these articles provide any detail about Aviva or any of the other novels that they reject. Popular novels were not treated in the press as fiction, but as dangerous cultural objects. While novels like Aviva were dismissed as shund, with all its Yiddish connotations in the Hebrew press in Palestine, actual connections to Yiddish—real or imagined—were rarely addressed.

Sabine and Aviva in Court

15In contrast to Hebrew critics, who rarely read the popular fiction they criticized, the narratives of Sabine and Aviva were essential to the case that unfolded in Tel Aviv. Only a few months after Aviva started appearing in Palestine, Yehuda Ya‘akovi sued publisher Alexander Mozes and distributor David Topel for violating copyright by translating Sabine into Hebrew without permission.

  • 25 Finkelstein, 1978, p. 210.
  • 26 Novershtern, undated.

16Ya‘akovi was a Yiddish journalist who had been a correspondent and an editor at Haynt, one of the largest Yiddish daily papers in Poland.25 Haynt published the work of an impressive roster of modern Yiddish writers, but also published serialized sensational novels, often in their afternoon tabloid, Today’s news (Hayntike nayes).26 By the mid-1930s, Hayntike nayes was also publishing stand-alone installments of shund novels like Sabine, which were sold alongside the papers at local news-stands. According to testimony by Ya‘akovi and Moyshe Indelman, who had worked at Haynt from 1925 until 1939, Sabine reflected not only the commercialization of shund, but Haynt’s financial difficulties. Financial difficulties in the early 1930s had led Haynt to become a cooperative enterprise, named Alt-nay, in which the employees, from editors to printing staff, participated in the newspaper’s business decisions. Indelman explains that the editorial staff opposed the plan to print cheap booklets of shund like Sabine, but other press employees outvoted them in favor of pursing the potentially lucrative plan. Ya‘akovi claimed that he, as one of the few members of the publishing collective who had survived the Nazi genocide, could sue for copyright violation.

  • 27 Alexander Mozes is perhaps better known for acquiring the newspaper Yediot aharonot in 1940, which (...)

17Alexander Mozes and David Topel disputed Ya‘akovi’s claim. Mozes ran a small printing shop on Sheinkin Street in Tel Aviv, a center of Hebrew publishing in the 1940s. The Mozes Press published an impressive number of Hebrew books at this time, including many novels that critics would have called shund: You Are Cruel, Fate! (1939), In the storm of love (1941), and Aviva.27 David Topel was a distributor who published and disseminated a variety of printed materials in Mandatory Palestine, from posters and placards to full length books. Lawyers for Mozes and Topel rejected two main arguments underlying Ya‘akovi ’s suit. They argued that the copyright belonged to the Alt-Nay Cooperative and no single member; therefore Ya‘akovi had no right to sue. They also insisted that Aviva was an original Hebrew work and not a translation.

  • 28 These rights were later extended to the entire duration of their copyright term, revisions that led (...)
  • 29 Birnhack, 2012, p. 101.
  • 30 Hemmungs-Wirtén, 2004, p. 38.
  • 31 Venuti, 2008, p. 8.

18The court had to adjudicate whether Aviva was a translation of Sabine and who owned the copyright. Modern copyright law is predicated on the Berne Convention, an international copyright agreement first enacted in 1886 and amended over the next century. The Berne Convention “granted authors of original works the exclusive right to make or authorize the translation of their works, up to ten years from the first publication of the original work.”28 In British Mandate Tel Aviv, the court relied on British copyright legislation based on the Berne Convention, specifically the British Imperial Copyright Act, which had been extended to Palestine in 1924. It stated that original literary, dramatic, musical and artistic works came under legal protection, and that the owner had the sole right to produce, reproduce, or publish a translation of the work for the duration of their lifetime plus fifty years.29 The legal structures of copyright were constructed to protect authorial interests, as the author is treated as “a critical facet” in intellectual property rights, while the translator, assumed to be derivative of the author, has the potential to “destabilize the category of authorship necessary for the analysis of intellectual property rights.”30 As Lawrence Venuti writes, “British and American law defines translation as an ‘adaptation’ or ‘derivative’ work based on ‘an original work of authorship,’ whose copyright, including the exclusive right ‘to prepare derivative works’ or ‘adaptations,’ is vested in the ‘author.’ The translator is thus subordinated to the author, who decisively controls the publication of the translation…”31

19Was Aviva a translation of Sabine or an original work? In court, journalist Shimon Samet testified that Aviva was a translation of Sabine, reading passages aloud in the courtroom in Yiddish and Hebrew that were virtually identical to each other. Samet would have had many options to choose from, since there are many segments of the narrative in which the Hebrew text is essentially identical to the Yiddish text. For example, after being poisoned and left for dead, Sabine returns to the home of the man she loves, Leon, only to see him embracing her rival, Regina, through the window.

  • 32 Klinger, 1937, p. 115–116. אין דעם מאָמענט, ווען סאָבינע האָט דורכן פּאַרטער-פענצטער דערזען, ווי רע (...)

In that moment, when Sabine saw through the window how Regina embraced and kissed the man who was the dearest being to her in the whole world, the unlucky besotted one had the impression that someone had stabbed a long knife into her heart. She became agitated and set off running from the garden out to the street. No, this she had not expected! […] “Oh, I would be better off dead,” she whispered to herself, “this time I will die a real death.”32

20Sabine, of course, lives long past this fateful night and by the end of the sprawling novel reunites with Leon. But her emotions and the obstacles that constantly bedevil her are the essence of this melodramatic narrative.

21Even though Mozes argued that Aviva was an original work inspired by Sabine, this section of the Hebrew novel is virtually identical:

  • 33 [1946], Aviva: koroteha shel ma‘apila tse‘ira, p. 71. בשעה שאביבה ראתה בעד החלון כיצד רבקה מחבקת את (...)

When Aviva saw through the window how Rivka embraced the man who was dearer to her than anything else in the world, she felt as though a knife had pierced her heart. She began to run and left behind her the elegant house and the garden. […] “It would be better for me to die,” she thought, “than to continue living like this.”33

  • 34 For example, we can see that a lang meser arayngezetst in ir harts becomes na‘atsu sakin be-liba.

22Aviva’s reaction to Gidon’s betrayal mirrors Sabine’s experiences, with literal Hebrew translations of specific Yiddish phrases.34 Moreover, Aviva translates the melodrama of the scene, along with its characters and setting, into Hebrew, even as the Hebrew text tends to condense the narrative and pare down the dialogue and the characters’ exclamations. Reading sections like these certainly supports Ya‘akovi’s claim that Aviva was an unauthorized and uncredited translation of Sabine.

  • 35 Nili was a Jewish espionage network in Palestine between 1915 and 1917.
  • 36 Melman, 2009.

23There are also sections in Aviva in which the narrative drifts away from its Yiddish precursor, which support Mozes’s argument that Aviva was an original fictional text. Some of these are relatively superficial modifications in which the European setting of the novel is replaced with the Middle East. For example, Sabine collapses in the rain after fleeing from Leon’s home and she is rescued by an itinerant group of Polish, Roma, and Romanian circus performers, who welcome her to join them as they travel across the Polish countryside, ending up in Lemberg (Lviv). Aviva follows a similar path but in a different geographic environment, as she is rescued by an Arab circus troupe and lands in Shechem (Nablus). Later in the novel, however, the Yiddish and Hebrew narratives diverge for more elaborate sub-narratives, as Aviva adds, for example, the discovery of hidden papers by a former Nili35 spy operative, tapping into the growing Zionist myths surrounding World War I,36 and a detective figure named Gidhar, modeled on David Tidhar, a famous private investigator and the hero of Shlomo Ben-Israel’s popular detective stories. Sabine’s expanding cast of characters spend time in Polish insane asylums and the luxurious gambling floors in Monte Carlo, while Aviva’s characters make daring raids on an Egyptian harem and hotel stronghold in Tel Aviv. But even as the dramatic narrative episodes differ, both Sabine and Aviva and their shared cast of main characters keep postponing the final, triumphant reunion between lovers.

  • 37 Rizzi, 2008, p. 155.
  • 38 Robinson, 1998, p. 183.
  • 39 McMurran, 2009, p. 21.
  • 40 McMurran, 2009, p. 5–6.

24While the first section of Aviva may be a translation, significant parts of Aviva are what Andrea Rizzi calls an aggressive translation,37 or what Douglas Robinson calls pseudotranslations, texts “whose status as ‘original’ or ‘derivative’ is, for whatever social or textual reason, problematic.”38 Aviva’s originality or lack of originality may be problematic in legal terms, but it is quite common in the context of popular fiction and pre-nineteenth century translations. As Mary Helen McMurran argues, this kind of blurring between original and translation was common until the eighteenth century in Europe, when the practice of translation and the discourse surrounding it underwent a major shift from translation as transmission to translation as an instrument of nationalized literary exchange.39 In a time when the modern concept of originality was still forming, translators frequently changed the text they were rendering into another language and added some original work to it.40 Gideon Toury identifies a similar fluidity between original writing and translation in nineteenth century Hebrew literature, as:

  • 41 Toury, 1995, p. 133.

the borderline between original writing and translation tended to be rather obscure… Indeed, it was not even necessary to mark a text as being translated. Moreover, even when a text was presented as a non-original, the common practice was to attribute it first and foremost, sometimes even exclusively, to its translator, who was thus conceived of as being virtually on par with the author of an original.41

25Translational norms in Hebrew and Yiddish had shifted by the 1940s, in the wake of ambitious artistic translations into Hebrew and Yiddish. Those artistic norms, however, did not extend to popular fiction, in which the commercial potential of a translation far outweighed artistic considerations. The uncredited translators of popular fiction were similarly influenced by norms that existed within popular fiction more broadly, which often treated existing texts as raw materials for their own fictional transformations, narrative frameworks that could be easily condensed, expanded, and otherwise transformed.

26The status of Aviva vis-à-vis Sabine was not the only issue facing the court. Judge Malhi also had to decide whether Yehuda Ya‘akovi, one of approximately 70 members of a cooperative enterprise that oversaw the publication of Sabine, owned the rights to the text. As formulaic texts that are often translated and adapted from other languages, popular novels like Sabine and Aviva confused these categories of ownership and authorship. The Warsaw edition of Sabine lists the pseudonymous “A. Klinger” as the author, while Aviva does not include an author’s or translator’s name. Popular fiction was often published under pseudonyms or without author’s names, which challenges traditional literary assumptions about originality. These texts are presented as consumable products rather than original artistic works, as a text’s value depends on its marketability and mass appeal and not its authorial pedigree. This, in turn, perpetuates older models of translation that rely less on the authority of the author or the integrity of the text and more on creative transmission of the story itself.

  • 42 Kacyzne, 1938, p. 2.
  • 43 See article in Ha-mashkif discussing Bentov’s claims. (Shamai, 1947, p. 2) Gutgeld immigrated to Pa (...)

27Further complicating the situation was the history of the texts that surfaced during the trial. Critics—in Yiddish and Hebrew—often faulted shund for being derivative, cribbed from other books and languages. One of the most interesting aspects of the testimony in the Sabine/Aviva case is that it brought up older accusations that Sabine had been “stolen.” In the late 1930s, the editorial board of Haynt had been sued in Poland by Helena Gutgeld, who claimed that Sabine was based on a Polish novel that she had written and published under the name Witold Gutowskiego. While this revelation made a stir in the Hebrew press in Palestine, Yiddish writer Alter Kacyzne had claimed that Sabine was ripped off from Gutowskiego’s Siostra Marja years earlier.42 At the time, Haynt defended itself by claiming that the Polish story had been taken from a French source, but they did pay damages. These claims resurfaced during the trial in Palestine, as the editor of the left-wing Zionist paper Al ha-mishmar, Mordekhai Bentov (born Gutgeld) claimed that his mother Helena Gutgeld, had written the Polish novel that had been translated as Sabine in Yiddish.43 Did Hebrew publishers who translated and adapted a Yiddish novel that likely had been adapted from Polish and French owe anything to Yehuda Ya‘akovi? Or, in legal terms, does an artistic work whose originality is contested enjoy the privileges of copyright, particularly when there is no clear owner of the work?

The Verdict and its Implications

28Judge Malhi, as reported by the press, began his verdict by agreeing that Ya‘akovi had the right to sue for copyright violation even though he did not write Sabine. The rest of the case proved more difficult to adjudicate. Malhi stated that the dispute surrounding the originality of the text made it impossible to reach a clear ruling, since he believed that the Hebrew, Yiddish, and likely even the French novels were not original. Malhi seems to be working with a conventional understanding of original, expecting texts to be unique or singular products of the imagination rather than iterations of previously published works. As a result, Malhi recommended a compromise, which was accepted by both sides: Ya‘akovi would receive damages totaling 50 liras from Mozes and Topel, not an insignificant sum in Palestine in 1947.

  • 44 Ha-tsofe, 22 January 1947.

29What are the implications of this case? On a basic level, it publicly confirmed Hebrew critics’ accusations that Yiddish was the hidden–or not so hidden–source of what they considered “bad” Hebrew fiction, even as more and more of this sort of fiction was being written in Hebrew and not translated. The religious Zionist paper Ha-tsofe reported on this case under the headline “Haynt’s Garbage Distributed in Tel Aviv,” showing that many saw the Yiddish dimensions of the case as far more noteworthy than the arguments over copyright.44 At this historical moment, however, we can also see this case, as minor as it may be from a legal standpoint, as a barometer for changing relationships between Hebrew and Yiddish in the aftermath of World War II and the Nazi genocide of Jews. The public spectacle of Ya‘akovi as one of the very few survivors of Haynt’s Alt-Nay collective claiming the rights to Sabine made clear that Warsaw and its Yiddish cultural institutions no longer existed. There would be no more shund coming from Warsaw. Hebrew popular fiction would continue to seek material from other languages, but the source of that material shifts to other languages, primarily American popular culture.

30When the judge accepted Ya‘akovi’s copyright claim but questioned the degree to which the laws of copyright applied to Sabine, his ruling conveyed the marginal status of these texts. Popular fiction confuses the frameworks that have been created for belletristic fiction, namely copyright, originality, and translation. Aviva, however, is not just a bad translation or partial plagiarism of Sabine, but part of a fictional genre that maintains a distinct set of conventions and has its own cultural capital and which privileges readability and marketability over originality and artistry.

  • 45 See Ben Ari, 2008, p. 7.

31What is most valuable about Aviva as a text is not its precise relationship to Sabine or to the Polish and French texts that may have preceded it, but how it transforms these pre-existing texts into a popular Hebrew novel. Aviva privileges the language and landmarks of the yishuv, providing Hebrew names for the characters and a Middle Eastern setting, but worries little about the social and socialist values often regarded as essential to labor Zionism. Its characters’ interactions, social dynamics, and socioeconomic portraits remain fundamentally European in nature. The elements that it adds to the translated narrative communicate particular aspects of the ideological culture of 1940s Palestine: Aviva is labeled as a ma‘apila, an illegal immigrant in the context of mid-1940s battles with Mandatory British authorities over immigration; the Nili subplot revisits a heroic myth from World War I; a private detective is modeled on the Zionist icon David Tidhar. These Zionist elements are simultaneously superficial, grafted onto the narrative of Sabine, and revealing, showing a political vantage point closer to Revisionist Zionist thinkers than the Labor Zionism that was dominant in Hebrew belletristic fiction of the time.45

32There is also an important gendered dimension to the court case and cultural phenomenon at its center. Press accounts of the case feature a series of men debating the ownership of Sabine and Aviva. Judge Malhi, Ya‘akovi, Mozes, Topel, their lawyers and all the witnesses mentioned in these descriptions were men. The texts being debated come across as feminine because their titles are women’s names, Sabine and Aviva; their covers feature images of women; and their narratives revolve around female protagonists. Implicit is also the assumption that women are the primary audience for these sorts of texts. Through this case, we can see the exclusion of women as agents within popular culture, and the marginalization of women within Hebrew culture more generally in the 1940s.

  • 46 Davar, [advertisement for Aviva], p. 10.

33When Mozes and Topel agreed to pay damages to Ya‘akovi, they took ownership of shund in Mandatory Palestine. While they did not represent Hebrew culture in its entirety, this legal process in effect publicly identifies a new home for Yiddish popular fiction in the yishuv. Mozes’s publishing activities demonstrate the progressive indigenization of shund. Within months of the verdict, Mozes invited Hebrew readers of Aviva to read his press’s newest serialized novel, Ha-tsabarit (The sabra woman).46 Though its title suggests a woman “native” to Palestine, the novel features the lovely young immigrant Gabriella, who must continually escape the clutches of her villainous estranged husband. Although this novel has no obvious Yiddish precursor, its characters and plot share many aspects with Aviva, joining a growing corpus of Hebrew shund. By late 1947, Mozes was publishing a “new” novel, Continued Life of Aviva. Apparently, the court case that publicly linked Mozes to Yiddish shund only fueled his continued efforts to publish popular fiction, increasing the growing corpus of Hebrew shund.

Figure 3 – Advertisement for Further Life of Aviva, Ha-mashkif, 9 November 1947, p. 3

Figure 3 – Advertisement for Further Life of Aviva, Ha-mashkif, 9 November 1947, p. 3

Text reads: “‘Fascinating Novel’ Press is beginning to publish installments of the continued life of Aviva, the new adventures of the heroine of the novel that stirred up the emotions of thousands of readers. The new novel is more suspenseful than its predecessor and will be read with bated breath. Even those who have not read Aviva can start reading the new novel, which constitutes an experience unto itself.”

With thanks to the Historical Jewish Press Project

  • 47 Tsipora appears to be the Hebrew version of the popular Yiddish novel Regina, which was another bes (...)
  • 48 Shamai, 1947, p. 2.
  • 49 Ha-arets, 7 March 1947, p. 2.
  • 50 Kol Ha-am, 25 April 1947.
  • 51 Al ha-mishmar, 14 February 1947, p. 3.

34We can also see a more subtle shift in rhetoric following the publication of Aviva and the court case surrounding it. While critics often referred to popular fiction as shund in the Hebrew press from the late 1920s on, Aviva, often paired with her counterpart Tsipora,47 became a widespread metonym for shund in 1947. Increasingly, critics across the political spectrum cite both Aviva and Tsipora as exemplars of shund: the Revisionist paper Ha-mashkif complained that “the streets are flooded with pornographic literature like the booklets of Tsipora and Aviva”;48 mainstream Zionist paper Ha-aretz warned that “this new generation is threated by many dangers, from the side of the ‘evil impulse,’ may the Almighty protect us, like Aviva and other inferior literature”;49 Kol Ha-am, the communist daily, described young readers going astray, “with enthusiasm he swallows the literature of the Balash [Detective], Aviva and Tsipora and he is drawn to inferior cinema films”;50 and left wing Labor Zionist paper Al ha-mishmar lamented that “here we have reached the peak of shund publication: Aviva, Tsipora, and more. These booklets serve up a dose of poison twice each week to thousands and thousands of young readers…”51 In the press, Aviva becomes a catchall term for shund of the worst type and comes to represent Hebrew shund more generally. These quotations from the Hebrew press, published in the first six months after the court case, all mention Aviva but only one of them uses the word shund. Aviva simultaneously represents and replaces shund in Hebrew cultural discourse, marking a key transition from early critical views, which saw shund as a dangerous phenomenon foreign to Hebrew culture, to the growing recognition that popular fiction had become part of Hebrew culture.

  • 52 King, 2020, p. 253.

35As the court case demonstrates, Sabine and Aviva are and are not originals, just as they are and are not translations. Tong Kim Lee, trying to make sense of the paradox of “original translations,” reflects on this liminal status: “There is no necessary contradiction in the proposition that a translation is and is not an original, or that a translator is and is not an author at the same time if we understand authorship and originality not as bounded concepts but as distributed ones.”52 Lee argues that copyright should be understood as a scale of originality and authorship in which individual texts have degrees of originality and combinations of authors and translators. For popular fiction, this perspective allows us to appreciate the linguistic and cultural layers of these texts, which circulate without strong concepts of authorship. At some moments, Aviva translates Sabine for a new language and culture; at others, Aviva transforms elements of Sabine for its own time and place. In the process, these novels demonstrate the ways in which popular fiction could circumvent and confound the legal, political, and cultural structures that sought to regulate it.

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Ha-boker [The morning], 22 January 1947, “Mi yatsar et ‘Sabine’ she-hafkhah le-‘Aviva’?”[Who created ‘Sabine’ who turned into ‘Aviva’?], p. 4.

Ha-mashkif [The Observer], 23 December 1946, “Saviv ‘Sabine’-‘Aviva’” [Around ‘Sabine’-‘Aviva’], p. 4.

Ha-tsofe, 4 April 1938, “Birchovah shel ir” [On the streets of the city], S.D.L., p. 2.

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Notes

1 I would like to thank the participants in the LJTRAD project conference in August 2021 for their helpful comments on this research. I would also like to thank Dorit Gani from the National Library of Israel for her assistance in locating materials related to this project. I have relied on several different newspaper accounts of the trial from December 1946 and January 1947 in this article from Al-hamishmar, Ha-arets, Ha-boker, Ha-mashkif, Ha-tsofe. See bibliography for details.

2 Rojanski, 2020, p. 8.

3 Chaver, 2004; Drucker Bar-Am 2021; Pinsker, 2020; Rojanski, 2020.

4 Ben-Ari 2006; Rosenberg 1999; Shavit 1999.

5 Barthes, 1977, p. 146.

6 Said, 1983, p. 135.

7 Silveira Brisolara, 2011, p. 112.

8 Lefevere, 1992; Venuti, 2008.

9 Excerpt from satirical poem (Segal, 1937, p. 3).

10 Gelder, 2004, p. 15.

11 Bloom, 2002, p. 16–17.

12 Cawelti, 1976, p. 14.

13 Shmeruk, 1983, p. 329.

14 Cohen, 200, p. 202.

15 Mayzl, 1933, p. 1–2.

16 Kacyzne, 1937, p. 8.

17 Shmeruk, 1983, p. 333.

18 Yehiel, 1938, p. 2.

19 Quote from article making fun of serialized novels featuring Aviva (Davar, “Aviva Chozeret”, p. 4)

20 Advertisements for the novel start appearing in newspapers like Ha-aretz in October 1946.

21 The term shund also refers to German Schundliteratur, which was the target of literary and cultural critics in Europe throughout the early decades of the twentieth century. For example, see Berg’s work (Berg, 1998). Clearly German debates about Schmutz and Schund (pornographic and pulp fiction) were also relevant to Hebrew critics, though contemporary Yiddish debates over shund were more relevant, since shund novels were being shipped to Tel Aviv in the 1930s.

22 Steinberg, 1919, p. 12.

23 Katznelson, 1934, p. 2.

24 Steinman, 1938, p. 2.

25 Finkelstein, 1978, p. 210.

26 Novershtern, undated.

27 Alexander Mozes is perhaps better known for acquiring the newspaper Yediot aharonot in 1940, which was later run by his father, Yehuda Mozes, and brother, Noach Mozes.

28 These rights were later extended to the entire duration of their copyright term, revisions that led to extensive debates between developed/exporting and developing/importing countries, demonstrating the strong colonial logic that persisted in intellectual property relations. (Lee, 2020, p. 243–245)

29 Birnhack, 2012, p. 101.

30 Hemmungs-Wirtén, 2004, p. 38.

31 Venuti, 2008, p. 8.

32 Klinger, 1937, p. 115–116. אין דעם מאָמענט, ווען סאָבינע האָט דורכן פּאַרטער-פענצטער דערזען, ווי רעגינע האַלדזט אַרום און קושט דעם מענטש, וועלכער איז געווען פאַר איר דאָס טייערסטע וועזן אויף דער וועלט, האָט די אומגליקלעכע-פאַרליבטע געהאַט דעם איינדרוק, אַז עמיצער האָט אַ לאַנג מעסער אַריינגעזעצט אין איר האַרץ. זי איז געוואָרן, ווי צעמישט און האָט זיך געלאָזט לויפן אין גאָרטן אַריין אויף דעם גאַס אַרויס. [...] ״אָ, כ׳וויל בעסער שטאַרבן,״ האָט זי געשעפּטשעט צו זיך, ״אָבער דאָס מאָל וויל איך שטאַרבן מיט אַן אמתן טויט.

33 [1946], Aviva: koroteha shel ma‘apila tse‘ira, p. 71. בשעה שאביבה ראתה בעד החלון כיצד רבקה מחבקת את האדם שהיה לה יקר יותר מכל דבר בעולם, הרגישה כאילו נעצו סכין בלבה. היא התחילה לרוץ והשאירה מאחוריה את הבית המפואר והגן. [...] ״מוטב לי למות,״ חשבה לה, ״מאשר להמשיך בחיים כאלה.

34 For example, we can see that a lang meser arayngezetst in ir harts becomes na‘atsu sakin be-liba.

35 Nili was a Jewish espionage network in Palestine between 1915 and 1917.

36 Melman, 2009.

37 Rizzi, 2008, p. 155.

38 Robinson, 1998, p. 183.

39 McMurran, 2009, p. 21.

40 McMurran, 2009, p. 5–6.

41 Toury, 1995, p. 133.

42 Kacyzne, 1938, p. 2.

43 See article in Ha-mashkif discussing Bentov’s claims. (Shamai, 1947, p. 2) Gutgeld immigrated to Palestine in 1939, but no mention was made of any literary activities in articles about her art exhibits and obituaries (Davar, “Helena Gutgeld”, p. 7).

44 Ha-tsofe, 22 January 1947.

45 See Ben Ari, 2008, p. 7.

46 Davar, [advertisement for Aviva], p. 10.

47 Tsipora appears to be the Hebrew version of the popular Yiddish novel Regina, which was another bestselling serialized novel in Warsaw in the 1930s. I have not yet succeeded in locating a copy of Tsipora.

48 Shamai, 1947, p. 2.

49 Ha-arets, 7 March 1947, p. 2.

50 Kol Ha-am, 25 April 1947.

51 Al ha-mishmar, 14 February 1947, p. 3.

52 King, 2020, p. 253.

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Table des illustrations

Titre Figure 1 – cover of Sabine, Warsaw 1937
Crédits With thanks to the National Library of Israel
URL http://journals.openedition.org/yod/docannexe/image/6667/img-1.png
Fichier image/png, 46k
Titre Figure 2 – cover of Aviva, Tel Aviv 1946
Crédits With thanks to the National Library of Israel
URL http://journals.openedition.org/yod/docannexe/image/6667/img-2.png
Fichier image/png, 1,3M
Titre Figure 3 – Advertisement for Further Life of Aviva, Ha-mashkif, 9 November 1947, p. 3
Légende Text reads: “‘Fascinating Novel’ Press is beginning to publish installments of the continued life of Aviva, the new adventures of the heroine of the novel that stirred up the emotions of thousands of readers. The new novel is more suspenseful than its predecessor and will be read with bated breath. Even those who have not read Aviva can start reading the new novel, which constitutes an experience unto itself.”
Crédits With thanks to the Historical Jewish Press Project
URL http://journals.openedition.org/yod/docannexe/image/6667/img-3.png
Fichier image/png, 1,7M
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Naomi Brenner, « Sabine vs. Aviva: Translation and Popular Fiction in Yiddish and Hebrew »Yod [En ligne], 25 | 2025, mis en ligne le 09 février 2026, consulté le 13 juin 2026. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/yod/6667 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/15npj

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