fiddler would be standing on a painted roof in the painted little town of Anatevke. This fiddler, born into the Lummi tribe and thrust as an unwilling child into a white household, was a practiced culture jumper. The boy I once knew as Richard Marshall had journeyed back as a man to his Northwest Indian roots and revived the music of his people. And, I thought with a wry smile, he still enjoys jamming with the Jews. "I saw your fiddler friend," my husband Shawn whispered, pushing our sons into their seats and then sliding down next to me in the darkened theatre as the overture wobbled to an end. "He was in the men's room when I