On January 1, 1993, I arrived at Harvard to take up a newly endowed professorship in Yiddish literature. It seemed preposterous—me at Harvard, Yiddish at Harvard. But as the taxi deposited me at the entrance to Lowell House, a new chapter of my life began in pretty much the way new chapters begin in some of the novels I teach.
The temperature was in the mid-50s, which, coming from snow-bound Montreal, I took as a splendid omen. A student resident of the house who introduced himself as Shai Held (later to become the noted rabbi and author) directed me to the apartment I was renting. It was more than ample for my needs: bedroom with desk, cupboard, lamp; sparsely furnished living and eating area; smaller second bedroom in case one of our children came to visit; galley kitchen; bathroom with shower. Len would not be joining me for several months, so I did not expect to entertain. Our ground-floor apartment looked out on the courtyard, which, it being winter break, was wonderfully still.
Harvard had never figured in my aspirations. Several years earlier, I had received a phone call from the historian Lucy Dawidowicz, my friend and my literary benefactor (having established the Fund for the Translation of Jewish Literature in part to support the series of Yiddish classics I was editing). She confided that a position in Yiddish literature was being set up at Harvard and that I would likely become its first incumbent. I laughed, asking whether she was exchanging the practice of history for prophecy. This may have discouraged her from saying any more about it.
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