Yiddish is a language without a country, without a government and possibly without a future. It was pronounced dead long before now but, like Welsh, refuses to lie down.
Considerable thanks for that goes to an unlikely little man from Poland named Isaac Bashevis Singer, who fled the Nazi tide in Europe in 1935 and eked out a meager living in New York writing short stories for a newspaper of Yiddish language and Socialist politics on the Lower East Side that catered to an ever-dwindling market.
In translation, he was a best-seller. In translation, he won critical acclaim. (What the formerly fashionable New Critics and currently trendy Deconstructionists have in common, with most of us, is ignorance of Yiddish.) In translation, "Satan in Goray," "The Family Moskat," "Yentl, the Yeshiva Boy," and many other stories and novels became famous and possibly eternal.