1.Something was wrong.

Change had abruptly slipped into our family and it affected me in everything that I did. I had turned twelve and my Garden of Eden that was Brooklyn in those years was being muddied day by day. Clues to the cause of change were dispatched in abundance but as hard as I tried, I was unable to decipher meaning from any of them.  The most compelling clue was that a new tone entered the voice of my world. In Brooklyn, in those days, it was less important what was said as to how it was delivered. Lightly sung, “I’m gonna killya” often was followed by a friendly hug. With a smile, “You’re killen me” usually meant that your joke was a success. “You’re gonna buy it,” ominously delivered, had nothing to do with shopping. Words were decorations to serious tunes. Tone was everything.

So, when my parents changed their tone, my antennae picked up that something dreadful had happened.  Instead of talking directly to Dad as she had always done, Mom now broadcast unfolding proceedings to all those within earshot. This happened to involve the whole family including Dad. Her manner was a neutral Radio Free Brooklyn. Instead of chirping “Charlie, c’mon to dinner,” it was monotone and impersonal, as if to say “And now for all those interested in the dinner event, activities are observed to be commencing in the kitchen – a truly immediate occasion. Latecomers will not be seated.” When a direct communication channel opened up between Mom and Dad, it was in the secret language used to keep us kids in the dark. This was my initiation into the use of Yiddish as a clandestine code. 

The mystery that lurked within our family continued to elude me for a long time. It made me an outsider in our tiny world. Dad never raised his voice, a custom instilled in him as part of his British heritage. His expressiveness in Yiddish seemed to be in the minor leagues compared to Mom so he said less. If Lord Nelson spoke Yiddish, he would have used the same colorless voice that Dad used.  Mom, on the other hand, spoke fluently and passionately. Nonetheless, she was soft spoken as well. One had to study the innuendo, pitch and tempo to fully get a feeling of what was going on. In addition, she managed to crochet words from different languages into the same sentence. This added to the intrigue since on occasion an English word popped out of the babble such as “disappointed.” Mom was resourceful that way. I assumed that there was no such word in Yiddish, which, in itself, surprised me since every conversation hovered around disappointment in some form. Dad, on the other hand, managed to learn a second language from his neighborhood pals. He was fluent in Italian retorts of the most arresting kind. He was able to put the brakes on Mom’s monologues with a single “Ba Fongool” uttered beneath his breath. My knowledge of Italian blossomed while I was in linguistic darkness of Yiddish. But alas, without understanding Mom’s code it continued to be a mystery. Was someone dying? What was it that could not be shared with us kids?

Once in a while I gathered enough of the foreign sentence to ask Mom what it meant. Like a sage handing down the meaning of life, Mom would tilt her head to stress the profundity and translate: “If I had wheels, I’d be a trolley car.” So, this is the clue? That’s that will reveal the mystery that gripped our household? That’s what you said to Dad that made his face flush with anger? Another time Mom repeated “Folg meer-a’gong” which thrust Dad from the room with his jaw hanging open. After the turbulence died down I asked what that meant. With a studied glance, Mom explained that it translated as, “You’re making me go to Japan by way of Alaska which is the opposite way I wanted to go.” C’mon Ma, how could three words convey so much? For the jet set, please understand that Mom was ignorant of the polar route.

It took me nearly a year to discover the secret that gripped my life. I was nearly thirteen near the end of 1951 when I accidentally discovered it. This is my memory of that year. I began the year a child and felt my salad days disappear as I began to understand the humanity of my parents, friends and neighbors.

Copyright 2008 by Arthur J. Levy