Tevye lay in the mud, staring at the sky, silently cursing the people of Anatevka.
He had tried to explain how living was hard, with so many challenges and problems to balance.
Nobody understood.
So, he said “it’s like a fiddler on the roof.”
They still didn’t understand.
So, he got out his violin, climbed on the roof, and tried to play it to show them how shaky he was.
“Tradition keeps us balanced!” he shouted.
And fell.
He couldn’t move. His neck was broken.
His wife shrieked the traditional prayers of a grieving widow.
“Not yet, Golde!” Tevye thought.
