A little bit of this, a little bit of that.

A pot, a pan, a broom, a hat.



Someone should have set a match to this place years ago.

A bench, a tree.

So, what's a stove? Or a house?

People who pass through Anatevka don't even know they've been here.

A stick of wood. A piece of cloth.



What do we leave? Nothing much.

Only Anatevka.



Anatevka, Anatevka.

Underfed, overworked Anatevka.

Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?

Anatevka, Anatevka.

Intimate, obstinate Anatevka,

Where I know everyone I meet.



Soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place,

Searching for an old familiar face

From Anatevka.



I belong in Anatevka,

Tumble-down, work-a-day Anatevka.

Dear little village, little town of mine.