Article by Uri Golomb of IMI News 2005

The opera The Rat Laughs by Ella Milch-Sheriff (b. 1954), based on a novel by Nava Semel (b. 1954), is an intensely moving confrontation with the Holocaust and its memory. The composer describes her own music as "very communicative and comprehensible, even when heard for the first time"; the opera contains many moments of innocent beauty and tuneful lyricism. Despite (or perhaps because) of this, however, the work achieves a powerful, almost unbearable emotional effect.
The novel

Nava Semel and Ella Milch-Sheriff, who wrote the libretto together, both belong to the second generation children of Holocaust survivors, born after the Second World War but living under the impact of their parents' experiences. Milch- Sheriff's confrontation with her own family's history is vividly expressed in her work Can Heaven be Void (2003), based on the diary of her father, Dr. Baruch Milch. The diary was recovered and published after Dr. Milch's death by Milch-Sheriff and her sister, the late Dr. Shosh Avigal (1946-2003). The work portrays some of the father's horrific experiences, as well as presenting his family's continued dialogue with him.
The relationship between Holocaust survivors and their families is also a central theme in many of Nava Semel's novels. Her novel The Rat Laughs (Tel Aviv: Yediot Achronot, 2001) focuses on the struggle between the need to preserve the memory of the Holocaust (and of individuals survivor's stories) and the desire to escape traumas by repressing and forgetting them. The background story takes place in Poland during the Holocaust: a little Jewish girl is sent by her parents to live with Polish farmers to escape certain death at the hands of the Nazis. The farmers - her would-be protectors - place the girl in perpetual darkness in a potato pit; Stefan, their teenaged son, repeatedly rapes her. Her only companion is a rat, whom she adopts as a pet and names "Stash". She is eventually rescued by the local priest, Father Stanislaw (also nicknamed Stash); but by then, the trauma has scarred her for life.
The five-part novel begins in 1999. The child is now an elderly woman living in Tel Aviv. Her teenaged granddaughter wants to document her story for a school project. Parts One and Two describe this encounter, respectively, from the grandmother's and granddaughter's view points. The book's title is drawn from a legend which the grandmother tells the granddaughter. The first rat, envious of Man, demanded the gift of laughter. God responds that he will able to laugh - but only if he hears another creature "laughing beside you underneath the ground". From then on, all rats have sought laughter under the ground — in vain. The grandmother imagines that her pet rat tried to make her laugh in order to force God to fulfil his promise. But the quest is doomed to failure, given her own inability (then and ever since) to laugh.
Part Three takes place ten years later (2009). Internet surfers discover a mysterious website called Girl and Rat, containing a series of enigmatic and disturbing poems, reflecting the thoughts of the child in the pit. But the website is unsigned; none of its readers know who the author is, or what experiences inspired the poems. Part Four zooms to 2099. The Girl and Rat poems, and the myth on the rat's laughter, have become popular cultural icons, and the anthropologist Lima Energelli is searching for their origins. Her research is carried out in secret: Stash, the Anthropological Institute's Director, declared that all research on the past is redundant, even dangerous, and refuses to hear of her findings. As a last resort, Lima breaks into Stash's REMaker a device that generates dreams and prevents nightmares - and forces the information into his dream.
Lima is convinced that Girl and Rat is based on real-life events; in her quest for evidence, she finds an old notebook, hidden in a ruined church in Poland. Part Five reveals the content of that notebook: the diary that Father Stanislaw kept from the day he received the child to his care until the end of the war.
From novel to opera
The libretto transforms the novel's fractured story-line into a continuous virtual- reality dream, which Lima (soprano Mai Israeli) forces on the reluctant Stash (baritone Yevgeny Nyegenyetz, replaced in later performances by Jonathan Haimovich) in 2099;2 the ten scenes follow one another without a break. Lima acts as storyteller and puppeteer. She and Stash have a one-sided interaction with the 'dream' characters: they can see them, touch them, even talk to them, but the characters are only subliminally aware of their presence.
Lima initially conjures up the meeting of the Grandmother and Granddaughter, which took place in 1999 in Tel Aviv. When the Grandmother begins to tell her story, Lima's dream presents the events of 1943-1944 in the potato pit and in Father Stanislaw's church. The survivor is represented by three voices: an alto (Bavat Marom) portrays the Grandmother; a soprano (the teenaged Einat Aronstein) portrays the Girl in the Pit; and a girls' choir (the Moran Choir, directed by Naomi Faran), singing poems from Part Three of the novel, represents her inner thoughts and feelings at the time. The survivor's story is intertwined with the myth on the rat's laughter, narrated by Lima and Stash.
The libretto's main weakness, in my view, is in its presentation of the futuristic characters. Stash's objections to Lima's research, and Lima's motivation for invading his dream, remain somewhat obscure in the opera. The novel, on the other hand, presents a much fuller and more convincing account of the relationship between Stash and Lima, set in the context of a vivid account of their futuristic society and its obsession with the eradication of traumatic memories.
A detailed exposition of the futuristic background, however, could have resulted in an over-extended libretto; the opera might thereby have lost its compact dimensions which greatly enhance its cohesion and power. On the whole, the libretto successfully ensures dramatic continuity and narrative fluency while retaining the novel's multi- layered character. It is the music, however, which ultimately weaves these strands into a unified, emotionally compelling whole.
The music
Milch-Sheriff's musical language is decidedly tonal, and projects an overall sense of stylistic cohesion and thematic unity. As the composer writes, "there is a kind of mixture between the musical motifs of all the characters as their lives intertwine"; but as thematic materials move between narrative layers, they are transformed to suit their varying contexts.
In the two opening scenes, the clearest musical contrast is between the futuristic characters (Lima and Stash) and those of the present day (Grandmother and Granddaughter). The former represent what Stash (in the novel) calls "the New Man, perfectly networked and genetically repaired". Lima is introduced as a shrill, robotic soprano-coloratura, giving her a powerful, terrifying presence. This complements her actions - the violent invasion of Stash's REMaker and her ostensibly complete control over his dream. She also introduces the motif associated with the rat's laughter - a fast chromatic descent, often doubled by tuned percussion. In most of its appearances, this motif has a mechanical, menacing quality reminiscent of (and often directly linked with) Lima's coloraturas.
Stash often appears, deceptively, more humane. For example, his brief hymn to oblivion ("Why not choose forgetfulness? Sweet sleep, cleansed of dreams or free of nightmares") is sung to a calm, lyrical line undercut, however, by an insistent, percussive accompaniment. Lima's own compassionate, vulnerable side is revealed increasingly as the horrific story unfolds and she witnesses its effect Granddaughter, on the Grandmother (reliving it), on Stash and on herself. This process can be sensed in the development of a motto-like refrain, which she repeats at several key points in the story:
The little-girl-who-once-was- existed.
The pit-that-once-was- existed.
The Rat-that-once-was- shall be.
This is the darkness. This is the darkness. There is no other

This refrain emphasises Lima's conviction that the story is drawn from real life, and therefore cannot be altered or softened. It is sung to a measured melody, built mostly on a broken minor chord. Yet its character is not constant: varying accompaniments make it sound stern and inexorable - or calm and conciliatory.
At its final appearance, its words and rhythm are also altered. The story has which has shielded him from shocked Stash so severely that his REMaker nightmares all his life - is broken. In her attempt to console him, Lima introduces a new variant of the refrain, softer and more yielding than anything she had sung before:
There Inside the pit, I will carry the memory and now you too will never forget.
There, in the darkness, you'll forever recall.
The robotic characterisation of Stash and Lima is thrown into sharp relief when set against the lyricism of the Grandmother's and Granddaughter's music. The difference can even be felt in the orchestra: Lima's accompaniments feature fast rhythms and strident sonorities, whereas the Grandmother's and Granddaughter's lines usually receive a rounded, quiet accompaniment from the orchestra.
Initially, the Granddaughter (soprano Claire Meghnagi) does not understand why her grandmother is so reluctant to share her story. She rashly declares that the story poses no threat to her: "you can see the worst atrocities live on TV, even on entertainment shows", she tells her grandmother; "What could you possibly tell me that I don't already know?". She imagines the farmers as benevolent foster parents, and thinks of her grandmother's survival as proof that miracles are possible. Her naivety is clearly portrayed in her music, which initially contains several cheerful, even perky passages; her faith in miracles is expressed in a bright, mellifluous, major- key melody. Such optimistic outbursts, however, become rarer as the story unfolds.
The Grandmother is portrayed with a different, darker lyricism; the clash is evident from the moment she tells her granddaughter that she has no faith in miracles. Her narrative has its moments of anger, sarcasm and bitterness; most of her lines, however, are "very melodic and mellow, full of sorrow" (Milch-Sheriff). The harsher emotions and more cynical pronouncements are mostly transferred to the girls' choir, as it sings the poems that represent the Grandmother's childhood thoughts. Most of these poems are set mono-rhythmically, with bittersweet harmonies discordant clusters softened by rounded rhythms, slower tempi, diatonic melodies, and refined, gentle sonorities. In some poems, the surge of pain and anger inspires a harsher, defiant musical setting (for example, When Stefan the Saint/ Was as small as an elf, the child's denunciation of her rapist). Elsewhere, Milch-Sheriff strives for the opposite effect: as the words become unbearable, the music becomes more and more harmonic and even sweet and provides a marked contrast to the meaning, thus amplifying the pain.
This ideal is clearly discernible in the work's most memorable melody, Maybe the sun doesn't go up; but it is only released gradually. The Grandmother, unable to recall how long her ordeal lasted, remembers her own thoughts at the time:
Maybe the sun doesn't go up, and the night doesn't go down,
Maybe beyond the pit the world doesn't go round,
Darkness isn't black, the sun doesn't set
And I'm the only one left, but I don't know it yet.
She initially sings these words in a monotonous, drone-like line, which soon becomes an accompaniment to the lyrical melody, introduced by the woodwinds. The Grandmother herself only picks up the melody when she repeats the poem later, joining forces with the choir.
The ironic use of musical beauty is especially poignant in the two Catholic prayer sequences - the Ave Maria, and the solemn Mass at the church. Milch-Sheriff's settings of these prayers are almost entirely devoid of discord and harshness, an effect enhanced by her use of the girls' choir in both cases. In the operatic context, however, this beauty acquires a disturbing, even subversive quality.
The Ave Maria is introduced by the Farmer's Wife (the mezzo Anat Iny) cruel, greedy, inhumane character, for whom murderous anti-Semitism is a sine qua non of Christian piety. She first sings the Ave Maria after telling the child to "Pray hard that the money [which the Girl's parents promised the farmers in exchange for 'rescuing' their daughter] will come", and repeats it after her joyful anticipation of "a solemn mass for a world cleansed of Jews".
The Wife's lines, like her husband's (the baritone Gabriel Loewenheim), are usually devoid of any melodic content; their music usually moves between the bland and the discordant. Her Ave Maria, however, is an intimate, diatonic melody, almost naïve in its simplicity. The choir and the Grandmother repeat the prayer in its entirety, representing the Girl's desperate attempt to become a Christian and thereby gain a measure of compassion and humanity from her tormentors. As far as the Wife is concerned, however, the Girl is beyond redemption: when she hands the Girl over to the Priest, she tells him to "slaughter the little Jew with your own hands, and avenge the blood of our Saviour".

The Ave Maria thus becomes something of a sick joke a tantalising promise instantly denied. The farmers' outwards expression of dignified, spiritual piety is contrasted with their cruelty and their vile sense of humour (we witness them telling pious jokes about the death of Jewish children in the Girl's presence). Milch-Sheriff's music affirms the beauty of the Christian liturgy; yet this very beauty becomes an integral part of a direct, angry critique.
While the Ave Maria is intimate and flowing, the short Mass setting generates a sense of distant, ceremonial grandeur. It introduces Father Stanislaw (the baritone Alexey Kanunikof) as an authoritative, confident priest leading his congregation. This feeling is disrupted when he sees the Girl: the orchestra plays Maybe the sun doesn't go up, and the melody is repeated as the choral setting of Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus. The melody becomes a foreign strain – vulnerable, yearning and disquieting - within the ceremonial proceedings.
The Priest retains his ceremonial dignity in his deliberations with the farmers, and even in his God-defying monologue. He gradually abandons this style, however, in his dialogue with the Girl, as he attempts to bring her spirit back to life and restore her faith in humanity (a faith which he has virtually lost): his music becomes more intimate, shedding its impersonal manner in favour of a more flowing vocal line. This reaches special poignancy in his farewell to the Girl:
Perhaps some day a miracle will happen, and you will find the strength to remember me. I will rise out of the darkness within you, I will stretch out my tail, and I will laugh to you. Forgive me, my daughter. Bless me, for I have sinned.
The music which frames this utterance is among the bleakest in the opera. The Priest's departure is accompanied by the opera's harshest motifs (including the violent Rat's Laugh); as he leaves the stage, the Girl is left alone, surrounded by a dark, minor chord and the ominous tolling of church bells.

But in the next scene the opera's ending - the Priest's prayer seems to have been fulfilled. The Grandmother has finished her story; night is falling, and she won't let her Granddaughter turn on the lights. In Oded Kotler's direction, Grandmother and Granddaughter have been watching the pit from the outside; now the Grandmother walks into it, seeking the Girl (i.e., herself as child). As the Granddaughter gropes in the darkness, finally finds her Grandmother (inside the pit) and embraces her, she sings in wonderment: "Grandma, you are laughing!" These are the opera's last sung words; the opera ends with Grandmother, Granddaughter and the Girl leaving the stage together, while "Lima and Stash watch them from a distance".
The previous scene portrayed the Girl's desperate attempts to learn how to laugh; viewers are perhaps meant to find some consolation in her ability to laugh now. On the other hand, it is not entirely clear whether this laugh is real or not: it has no direct musical representation, and therefore remains inaudible. Instead, the glockenspiel and strings echo Lima's final words ("Inside the pit" etc., quoted above). This passage includes one poignant major chord; but it is tantalising in its isolation, and the opera ends in a soft, subdued minor chord.
Thus, even in this moment of potential consolation, Milch-Sheriff largely avoids the major key, with its dangers of saccharine sentimentality and its potential denial of the pain which remains, forever, at the heart of the story. By giving voice to her story, the Grandmother has partly come to terms with what has happened to her, and is now able to reach out to her childhood self, as well as to her Granddaughter. Stash's incredulous question at the beginning of the opera - "You are putting yourself at risk and your granddaughter too! Why, why remember?" - is implicitly answered in this final scene. Memory does offer a degree of healing and consolation; yet the healing can never be complete.

The opera was produced by the Cameri Theatre, in collaboration with the Israel Chamber Orchestra. In terms of its reception by critics and audiences alike, this production proved to be one of the most remarkable successes in the history of Israeli opera. By presenting the work as part of its season a play among other plays - the Cameri Theatre was able to attract an audience who might otherwise avoid opera. Opening to an initial five-performance run in April 2005, its enthusiastic reception encouraged the Cameri Theatre to present a series of additional performances during the summer, including two performances at the Israel Opera House in October; and the opera will also be incorporated into the 2005-2006 season.
The intense, powerfully integrated production marked the operatic debut of Oded Kotler, one of Israel's leading theatre directors. The Israel Chamber Orchestra was conducted with great flair by the young Ori Leshman, already an experienced opera conductor. Space precludes a detailed assessment of the cast and their individual merits. In any case, the production proved greater than the sum of its excellent parts: it enjoyed a long gestation, creating a close bond between the performers and work's authors.
But above all, the opera owes its success to the powerful effect of the music itself. In an ostensibly simple musical language, Milch-Sheriff breaths terrifying and inspiring life into the complex and moving libretto, creating a work of remarkable integrity and intensity.
2005, IMI Israel Music Institute (www.imi.org.il)
This article will be published in the forthcoming issue of IMI News (2005/2). All references (paraphrases and direct quotations) to this article must acknowledge Uri Golomb as the author and IMI News, published by the Israel Music Institute, as the publisher.
All quotations from the novel and the libretto are taken from Miriam Shlesinger's translations of these texts, and appear by permission of the author, Nava Semel.

Dr. Uri Golomb
Executive Editor, IMI News