The Jewbird by Bernard Malamud

Anti-Semeets.

Bernard Malamud does it again! He is quickly becoming one of my favorite short-story writers, and The Jewbird is another testament to his literary talents. I have said this in other reviews, but it bears repeating: Malamud’s prose has an effortless smoothness to it. A kind of simple eloquence where you just fall into the rhythm of the story and suddenly you’re hooked. 

On top of the beautiful writing, Malamud is simply a terrific storyteller with a vivid, slightly mischievous imagination. Only he could introduce a Yiddish-speaking bird who flies into the apartment of a Jewish immigrant family in New York City and somehow make the whole thing feel completely natural. The magical realism is so grounded in human emotion that you forget it’s magical at all.

The author uses this fantastical setup and allegory to explore tougher themes, especially Jewish displacement and the painful, complicated reality of Jewish self-hatred. The father’s hostility toward the bird isn’t just for comic relief or coming from a place of annoyance; rather, it’s internalized loathing, a deep discomfort with his own heritage that he projects onto this feathery outsider. Malamud never hits you over the head with it but the tension between the father’s shame and the bird’s desperate need for safety becomes more and more heartbreaking as the story unfolds.

For Malamud, humor and sorrow are often intertwined. The dark comedy keeps you grinning, but there’s an unmistakable ache underneath it all. When the climax arrives and the bird is cast out (similar to the pogroms), Malamud lands another one of his signature emotional punches right to the gut. He knows exactly how to twist the knife with restraint and grace, leaving you a little stunned by how much weight a story about a talking bird can carry.

Another powerful, unforgettable finish from a writer who makes heartbreak feel strangely beautiful.

You can read this story HERE.