Suddenly it occurred to me. That was why Molly Picon was the darling of the Yiddish theatre. She is the personification of her people. She represents its humor, its pathetic helplessness, its courage and tragic sense, its love of song and gaiety and its artistic versatility.

She is tiny -- like her people. There are only fourteen million Jews in the world. Yet there is a dynamic quality i this infinitesimal segment of the world's population which focuses a dramatic spotlight upon it. Sometimes it is the green spotlight of world prejudice which seeks to place upon it the responsibility for all ills, as if this people could possibly be so powerful for good or evil. Sometimes it is the amber spotlight of appreciation for the unique contribution to science and the arts made by so small but so gifted a race. Yes, Molly is tiny -- but great.

She is a wanderer -- like her people. Few artists have traversed the world as she has -- traveling 35,000 to 50,000 miles year after year. She has appeared in Russia, Poland, Romania, Belgium, Switzerland, England, France, South Africa and South America. The Jews' home is everywhere. Molly's art has been everywhere. the Zulu chieftains of Johannesburg have feted her King Ferdinand and Queen Marie of Romania have ordered command performances. Students in Vienna have carried her home on their shoulders in triumph. but also, Nazis in the Berlin of 1931 have insulted her, and anti-Semites in Bucharest have rioted against her like her people, she has been admired and hated. And always she has been restless -- an East Side girl, building a European reputation so she will be appreciated on the East Side.

Above all her talents, Molly is "becheint." The word defies definition. Charming? Cute? It is something much more. It included an ineffable quality which makes an audience sigh ecstatically, "Isn't she wonderful?" "She's a darling." If you asked why and the audience could explain it -- that would be the definition.

It is a winning quality which is irresistible. We hide our inability to solve such mysteries by using the word "personality." But what is that? If a critic could, like a chemist, break it up into its component parts, he would probably find artistic color, great sincerity, a sense of oneness with the audience and affectations so invisible that they do not irritate but, on the contrary, give all the illusions of naturalness and simplicity. Even then, many factors would not be isolated. But the results are always evident. Audiences adore her. They are anxious to recognize her talents as if they felt pride in their appreciation as much as in her achievements.

She breaks down the barriers of resistance. Her comedy then seems funnier and her tragic sense more profound. She can disarm a listener in a few minutes -- sometimes seconds. In this sense, she literally captures an audience and its emotional responses then becomes full and uninhibited.

All this and more explains why this mite has blazed to stardom in every theatrical realm and has received recognition of greatness from the most discerning critics of the English and foreign press, as well as from the Yiddish press. Brooks Atkinson has written of her: "Once the idol of Second Avenue, more recently the darling of the world, she has the daintiness of a lady and the warmth of a street singer. She is a singer of songs about people and an honor to her profession."

I suspect that she is the Joan of Arc of the Yiddish theatre. She is the glorious, heroized personification of her people's joy and tears, their song and dance, their versatility and charm.

That is why she is their darling. They pay her tribute because she is a living tribute to them.

Art is nothing more than the shadow of humanity. When God conceived the world -- that was poetry. When He created it -- that was sculpture. When He colored it -- that was painting. And when He put living people upon it -- that was the Divine Drama.

Molly Picon has been living the Divine Drama of her people, as well as of herself.

She is the singer -- like her people For Jews even pray in song. The Talmud is read in melody. The cantor's musical supplications have become a unique art so developed in virtuosity that we judge it by non-religious standards. Yes, music wipes away the dust of everyday life and cleanses the soul. Molly possesses this highest gift of her people.

Hers is not a good voice. Her alto tones shift in unorthodox manner to soprano "head" notes in the higher octaves. But the transition is soothing. It is a sweet voice -- a hearty voice. Its softness tugs at the heart. It creates moods and can bring forth laughter or a gulping throat instantaneously. When she sings, one is not conscious of the voice. It is as if she were speaking in melodic rhythm. And when she talks it is as if she were singing simply. The song that we hear with our ears is only the song that is sung in our hearts. The secret of all artistry is fundamentally the same -- rhythm. Whether is is the pulsating speed of "The Rhapsody of a Working Girl," or the stately, tragic beat of "East Side Symphony," or the gay evenness of "In Meine Oigen Bist Du Schoen" -- rhythm projects her sincerity and carries the listener along with the tempo.

She is versatile -- like her people. In different shows she has performed sleight of hand, walked a tight rope, and played eight musical instruments, including the ocarina. But more varied still is the range of her characterizations and, above all, the moods she projects, from quiet, patriotic fervor to bouncing farce, from sensitive, tragic feeling to impish and whirling gaiety. For her people have a great heart even in disaster and, like the setting sun, show their greatest countenance in their lowest estate.

She is a gifted mimic -- she can be her people. Her face is contorted before your very eyes into a toothless grandmother, and her body, sagging ever so slightly, gives you all the frail dignity of old age. Or she can be a tiny child, her voice becoming shrill and plaintive, her body restlessly young -- from embarrassed toes to wondering eyes. Or she can be a huge fat man. Her body then curves outward into an arch and her breathless, guttural tones give you the full impression of jowls, and a voice choked by burdens of fat. Whether she is the stuttering idiot, Schmendrick, or the struggling mother and later grandmother in the legitimate Broadway drama "Morning Star," her effects are modified by artistic restraints which heighten their veracity. Sometimes I think she is so utterly charming as a dancer and ingénue because she can mimic beauty and grace, too. Shakespeare's words apply to her:

"To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft at will."