Upon seeing The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public

“Hm, that sounds like my kind of play,” I thought* immediately after reading a flattering review of Nathan Englander’s The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public Theater. I think I may have even said this out loud to my roommates … or, at least, to the room. And I knew then that I would go see it, considering that I’m in a show-seeing mode (and that I could possibly get a ticket for relatively cheap.)


I first tried to score a rush ticket less than a week ago, but without luck. Instead, I spent the evening with my friend Faith, and Frank (her affable dog, only one of two I’ve ever liked), at the Union Square Holiday Market. I browsed the shops for gift ideas, dinned on a savory pear & Gorgonzola crepe, and even warmed up with some wine as I briefly experienced the market from a vendor’s perspective. (If you go, check out DA Metals for some colorful handmade jewelry.) But last night, after bolting from my office at 6 (when rush tickets go on sale) to catch multiple trains down to Astor Place—the linchpin between Greenwich and the East Village, I arrived at The Public in time to snag the rush last ticket. Smug with my hustle, I set off for a bit of dinner before the show.

The dining scene in the contemporary East Village is replete with restaurants and cafes, dive bars and bright-lit bodegas, specialty stores and food trucks, cutting-edge kitchens and decades-old mainstays. Despite all these options, I aimed for a familiar narrow door of Weschler’s Currywurst. I’d been there on at three occasions before—both to begin and end peripatetic evenings—and once again sought the comfort of German beer & brats. I was pleased to see it still in existence (New York retailers are in perpetual flux), and noticed that they’d expanded both the menu and the seating area. I found a little booth in the rear, and ordered some new items—leberkase, and a side of red cabbage. For my beverage, I avoided anything too strong for a pre-show drink, but also veered from more warm-weather beers. So I opted for the Warsteiner Dunkel, the epitome of a dunkel: a dark amber lager, malty and not too heavy, with a caramel aroma that was pleasant, but also a final sweet flavor that was almost not. The cabbage, cooked with apples and spices, was definitely in the autumnal mode, but the leberkase was not what I’d expected: a pork/veal loaf that resembled a thick ham steak, though more flavorful. And yet, despite the good searing from the griddle, that flavor lacked complexity; I had anticipated something more like a, well, a meatloaf—ground, with spices. But, it was paired with a nice sweet/sour mustard that gave it another dimension. Next time (and there will certainly be a next time since the cozy space and selection of German beers will surely beckon once again), I think I’ll try one of the varieties of wurst. And should you ever stop by for you first taste, get the currywurst.

Entering the theater, I quickly realized I was the youngest person there—not a criticism, just an observation—and took my seat in the center of the rear row. The scrim across the stage featured a long row of uniformed figures, with writing Russian and Yiddish writing above—the names of the prisoners, or book titles? This descended at the top of the show to reveal the primary set, a prison cell: a square platform, two benches, a wall with locked cell door, and single light bulb in the ceilings. The exposition was my least favorite scene, but it did the job of introducing the four main characters—esteemed authors (and one who is not) of the Yiddish-language—and their situation: imprisonment, and almost certain death, in Stalin’s Soviet Union. The characters represent different generations, genres, affiliations, and approaches to literature, but they realize that what unites them—Judaism and writing—is their fateful undoing, along with two dozen others in cells nearby.

After the loyal Stalinist poet is summoned to meet with the Agent, the scene shifts to an office space as a wall of files folds down from the ceiling. The Agent welcomes him with tea, but their discussion quickly turns into an interrogation. The fearful poet protests his innocence while attempting to avoid self-incrimination as the Agent pries into the nature of his arrest and his loyalty to the state. The Agent exemplifies the corrupt Soviet system, with its double-speak, fear-mongering, and indifference to anything but maintaining power. However, the Agent does betray his own fear of failure, as he explains his mission to complete this purge. A clerical error (or whisper in Stalin’s ear, as he surmises), has placed a young unpublished writer (the twenty-seventh man) in the prison among the scions of Yiddish literature. Hoping to resolve this embarrassing situation, the Agent places a bargain before the poet: testify that the boy’s poetry contains subversive messages (which it really doesn’t), or be killed and have your entire legacy wiped from the earth. Ah, drama. And of course there’s some clever dialogue about lies and storytelling, as well as the value of one’s dignity in death versus living without it. 

When the poet returns to the cell for the final scene, we can pretty well surmise his decision. But the other characters only see a man wracked with fear or guilt--or both. Although they try to extract the details of his meeting, the poet is reluctant to reveal them. Instead, we learn more about the others: why the hedonist returned to Russia from America when he knew the risks he faced at home, and why the eldest quit writing after suffering so many tragedies, both personal and global. Eventually the poet breaks down, wracked by the foolishness of his loyalty to Stalin, and discloses that the boy was there by mistake. The young writer collapses with this news, but even he comes to accept his fate as the others do. A daily writer denied his instruments, he recites an allegory he had composed in his head as shots are heard from outside the cell. The guard enters--their turn. As they stand, the wall sudden falls backward, leaving the four men exposed to the inevitable volley.

The "Night of the Murdered Poets" in 1952 was one of Stalin's final purges. Despite encouraging--and receiving the support of--the Jewish Soviet community for decades, he perceived the Yiddish literati as a destabilizing threat. The play depicts the elimination of not only this beautiful culture's greatest artists but also, and perhaps more significantly, the potential of its future. Twenty-seven men disappeared, and only after the collapse of the Soviet Union was the nature of their fate discovered. But their legacy, in their writings and this play, survives to inspire. As I walked home from the train station last night, I thought "Hey, I could write a play like this." Maybe I will.



*The elements that make this "my kind of play" are (in no particular order): based on a known historical event of which the specific details (e.g., conversations and thoughts of the participants) are unknown; small cast; minimal set and and scene changes; a sense of confinement (either real or imagined). That said, I do happen to like other elements that weren't in this play, and not all (or any) of these are necessary for me to enjoy a play.