The Yiddish Policemen’s Union

A review of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union by Courtney B. Carbone

The Yiddish Policeman's Union: A Novel. Michael Chabon. HarperCollins, 2007. 432 pp., $26.95

One of the newest efforts from the desk of Michael Chabon is The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. This a detective-style novel takes into consideration what could have been one man’s life story had the United States allowed for the creation of a Jewish settlement in Alaska in response to the Second World War. Many members of this fictional community, Sitka, are up in arms about the prospect of the second displacement due to the implementation of an American policy of “Reversion.” Under the duress of a temporary and frustrating reality, the story sets out to secure the only thing that cannot be altered by time: the truth about the past.

Chabon’s stories often celebrate the underdog, in this particular case (literally, folks), the protagonist is Detective Meyerle Landsman, resident self-loathing drunk and broken divorcee of the Sitka Central Police Department. The tragic flaw that befalls him (besides his unfortunate placement in the Northwest corner of already-North America) is his ability to separate personal involvement from his investigative work. Landsman is just as rough around the edges as the paper pages of Harper Collins’ hardback in which he exists. This feature, however, makes him a realistic character, a likeable character, and ultimately a character worthy of redemption.

The novel reads like a classic 1940’s “Whodunit?” movie (fortunately for the Coen Brothers, the Oscar-award-winning directors chosen for its adaptation), playing heavily in the old-fashioned noir themes of gangsters, gun play, ad chiaroscuro (especially that of the struggling protagonist’s mind). The novel begins, as any good thriller, in a cheap hotel with an unusual murder case. Landsman, an extended-stay resident of this establishment, Hotel Zamenhof, accepts the case even though his only lead is a cardboard chessboard on the victim’s dresser. Chess, ironically, is his early childhood nemesis: the direct result of his father and uncle’s love of the game. Could the chessboard hold a clue to the identity of the murder? Though the pieces we set up in an interesting arrangement, Landsman seen that his answer will not be so plainly black and white. Landsman will need to search his soul if he ever wants to find the party guilty of this heinous crime.

One does not read the The Yiddish Policemen’s Unions as much as enter into the quirky and eclectic psyche of Chabon. His novel contains layer upon layer of rich, inventive detail and fluid description. The metaphors and allusions come in varying levels of subtlety, keeping the reader involved through the plot-driven exposition of paragraphs. The voice and style of the book have all of the characteristics of Chabon’s previously-prized novels, for example, his acclaimed-debut, The Mysteries of Pittsburg and Pulitzer Prize-winner, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Dialogue comes intermittently throughout the novel, and the reader welcomes it as a breath of fresh air, comic relief, and ultimately, a break in the bulk text that composes the remainder of the book. The characters have a flair for drama, wit, and sarcasm, “Please, Berko don’t start having respect for my judgment now,” Landsman asks of his partner, “Not after all this work I’ve put into undermining it.” The dialogue easily follows the humor and mood of the rest of the text, a tour de force of casual conversation.

The self-deprecating humor frees this cerebral novel from pretense and allows for a very realistic portrayal of characters. Just as the book is loaded with detail, so, too, is it stuffed with characters. Not to be an irrational naysayer, I understand the necessity of his dozens of character inclusions: you can’t write and effective suspenseful murder mystery with only one or two suspects. While, admittedly, the sheer amount of character may have been confusing at points, it does at least serve to make the book composite and realistic.

While some characters never really become much more than a name and an occupation (a positive, not a negative), there are two people of premiere importance in the life of Meyerle Landsman for better or for worse, respectively: Berko Shemets and Bina Gelbfish. Chabon assigns roles to these two characters as if he is the director of a low-level theater troupe. Berko is credited three times in the novel; the reader gets to know this massive, tufty-haired Alaskan in the context of Landsman’s willing best friend, rough-and-ready partner, and distanced cousin alike. Bina Gelbfish, likewise, takes her bows as razor-sharp ex-wife and interim department superior, two functions that low her to license of making Landsman’s life as easy or difficult as she sees fit.

The murder mystery unfolds just as quickly in fast-action sequences as those more slowly paced musings that wind through the clockwork of Landsman’s mind. Through a series of bullet exchanges, threats from ruthless thugs, and government conspiracies, the reader comes to learn the truth about the murder as well as Landsman’s true colors. In this way, the conflict and protagonist simultaneously find their long sought-after resolution (an actualized accomplishment, not merely a literary given). The final sentence of the novel could just as easily have been Chabon’s own invitation to the reader, spoken in the illustrious voice of Meyer Landsman himself, “I have a story for you.” In the opinion of this reviewer, he certainly does.