HOW DO YOU TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BLESSING AND A CURSE?

That the Jews who can spot the cheerier side of bad news can also spot the gloomier side of good news explains the deliciously contrarian spite to be found in typical Yiddish curses:

‘May you become so rich that you’re the richest person in your whole family!’

‘May you become so rich that your wife’s second husband never has to work a day in his life!’

Indeed, the standard response of today’s average teenager upon hearing anything positive – ‘good luck with that’ – has long since been the standard Jewish blessing: ‘Mazel tov!’ (literally ‘good luck’ rather than, as is more commonly translated, ‘congratulations’). And certainly nothing gets a Jew down like ‘positive thinking’:

A group of Jews are discussing the state of the world:

‘The economy is crashing and you know who they’ll blame for it, don’t you?’

‘Have you seen the things they’ve been saying about us on social media?’

‘Everyone’s an anti-Semite. Trust nobody.’

‘They always claim it’s our fault.’

‘Or Israel’s fault.’

‘What’s wrong with you people? Why can’t you be a bit more positive? Me, I’m an optimist!’

‘You look pretty anxious for an optimist.’

‘You think it’s easy being an optimist?’

For most of their long history in the Diaspora, Jews have not had the resources to become warriors for their cause. As such, they’ve become worriers for their cause:

The citizens of Chelm [fantasy shtetl of Jewish joking lore] used to spend a good deal of time worrying – so much time, in fact, that they soon began to worry about how much they worried.

The Grand Council of Wise Men convened a meeting to discuss all this worrying, and to find a solution for it. For seven days and seven nights the wise men of Chelm discussed the problem, until finally the chairman announced a solution: Yossel, the chimney sweep, would be the official Chelm Worrier. In return for one ruble a week, he would do the worrying for everybody in Chelm. The Grand Council members all agreed that this was the ideal solution, but just before the vote was taken, one of the sages rose to speak against the proposal.

‘Wait a minute,’ he announced. ‘If Yossel were to be paid one ruble a week, then what would he have to worry about?’

Still, Jews try not to worry until the optimal moment:

The astronomer was concluding a lecture: ‘Some believe the sun will die out within about four or five billion years.’

‘How many years did you say?’ asked Mrs Shindler.

‘Four or five billion.’

‘Phew!’ she replied, ‘I thought you said million!’

And they can usually spot when the tides are turning and the signs are looking good:

Two Jewish POWs are about to be shot. Suddenly the order comes to hang them instead. One smiles to the other: ‘You see? They’re running out of bullets.’

Telling the blessing from the curse, in other words, is really a matter of where you lay the emphasis – just as, no matter how good the joke you’re about to utter may be, it’ll fall flat on its face if you don’t intone it right.

But while such jokes are obviously funny, they do more than merely amuse. For the laughter that hinges on surprise – for example, at the sudden reversal of meaning when a hanging becomes evidence of a bullet shortage – reminds whoever hears it that it’s possible to be surprised. And that, interestingly, is something the joke shares with the messianic structure of the story that Jews tell of their own history. Indeed, what both Jewish history and Jewish jokes reveal is not dissimilar: there’s always another way of seeing things, always another place to lay the emphasis, and always another future to look towards – so expect the unexpected!