around the time of the First World War.
Oma and Opa looked down on them. It confuses me, that
realization, because I loved my mother’s parents so much. They doted on me,
too: I was their precious Lingerl’s beloved child. But I think Oma and Opa
despised Papa’s parents, for speaking only Yiddish, not German, and for their
odd clothes and religious practices.
It was a terrible humiliation for Oma and Opa, when
they were forced to leave the Renngasse to live in that immigrant Jewish
quarter. People used to call it the Matzoinsel, the matzo island, a term of
contempt. Even Oma and Opa, when they didn’t think Papa was around, would talk
about his family on the Insel. Oma would laugh her ladylike laugh at the fact
that Papa’s mother wore a wig, and I felt guilty, because I was the one who had
revealed this primitive practice to Oma. She liked to interrogate me about the
“customs on the Insel” after I had been there, and then she would remind me
that I was a Herschel, I was to stand up straight and make something of my
life. And not to use the Yiddish I picked up on the Insel; that was vulgar and
Herschels were never vulgar.
Papa would take me to visit his parents once a month
or so. I was supposed to call them Zeyde and Bobe, Grandpa and Grandma in
Yiddish, as Opa and Oma are in German. When I think about them now I grow hot
with shame, for withholding from them the affection and respect they desired:
Papa was their only son, I was the oldest grandchild. But even to call them
Zeyde and Bobe, as they requested, seemed disgusting to me. And Bobe’s blond
wig over her close-cropped black hair, that seemed disgusting as well.
I hated that I looked like Papa’s side of the family.
My mother was so lovely, very fair, with beautiful curls and a mischievous
smile. And as you can see, I am dark, and not at all beautiful. Mischlinge ,
cousin Minna called me, half-breed, although never in front of my grandparents:
to Opa and Oma I was always beautiful, because I was their darling Lingerl’s
daughter. It wasn’t until I came to live with Minna in England that I ever felt
ugly.
What torments me is that I can’t recall my father’s
sisters or their children at all. I shared a bed with five or maybe six
cousins, and I can’t remember them, only that I hated not being in my own
lovely white bedroom by myself. I remember kissing Oma and weeping, but I
didn’t even say good-bye to Bobe.
You think I should remember I was only a child? No.
Even a child has the capacity for human and humane behavior.
Each child was allowed one small suitcase for the
train. Oma wanted us to take leather valises from her own luggage—those had not
been of interest to the Nazis when they stole her silver and her jewels. But
Opa was more practical and understood Hugo and I mustn’t attract attention by
looking as though we came from a rich home. He found us cheap cardboard cases,
which anyway were easier for young children to carry.
By the day the train left, Hugo and I had packed and
repacked our few possessions many times, trying to decide what we couldn’t bear
to live without. The night before we left, Opa took the dress I was going to
wear on the train out to Oma. Everyone was asleep, except me: I was lying rigid
with nervousness in the bed I shared with the other cousins. When Opa came in I
watched him through slits in my closed eyes. When he tiptoed out with the
dress, I slid out of bed and followed him to my grandmother’s side. Oma put a
finger on her lips when she saw me and silently picked apart the waistband. She
took four gold coins from the hem of her own skirt and stitched them into the
waist, underneath the buttons.
“These are your security,” Opa said. “Tell no one, not
Hugo, not Papa, not anyone. You won’t know when you will need them.” He and Oma
didn’t want to cause friction in the family by letting them know they had a
small emergency hoard. If the aunts and uncles knew Lingerl’s children were
getting four
Oma and Opa looked down on them. It confuses me, that
realization, because I loved my mother’s parents so much. They doted on me,
too: I was their precious Lingerl’s beloved child. But I think Oma and Opa
despised Papa’s parents, for speaking only Yiddish, not German, and for their
odd clothes and religious practices.
It was a terrible humiliation for Oma and Opa, when
they were forced to leave the Renngasse to live in that immigrant Jewish
quarter. People used to call it the Matzoinsel, the matzo island, a term of
contempt. Even Oma and Opa, when they didn’t think Papa was around, would talk
about his family on the Insel. Oma would laugh her ladylike laugh at the fact
that Papa’s mother wore a wig, and I felt guilty, because I was the one who had
revealed this primitive practice to Oma. She liked to interrogate me about the
“customs on the Insel” after I had been there, and then she would remind me
that I was a Herschel, I was to stand up straight and make something of my
life. And not to use the Yiddish I picked up on the Insel; that was vulgar and
Herschels were never vulgar.
Papa would take me to visit his parents once a month
or so. I was supposed to call them Zeyde and Bobe, Grandpa and Grandma in
Yiddish, as Opa and Oma are in German. When I think about them now I grow hot
with shame, for withholding from them the affection and respect they desired:
Papa was their only son, I was the oldest grandchild. But even to call them
Zeyde and Bobe, as they requested, seemed disgusting to me. And Bobe’s blond
wig over her close-cropped black hair, that seemed disgusting as well.
I hated that I looked like Papa’s side of the family.
My mother was so lovely, very fair, with beautiful curls and a mischievous
smile. And as you can see, I am dark, and not at all beautiful. Mischlinge ,
cousin Minna called me, half-breed, although never in front of my grandparents:
to Opa and Oma I was always beautiful, because I was their darling Lingerl’s
daughter. It wasn’t until I came to live with Minna in England that I ever felt
ugly.
What torments me is that I can’t recall my father’s
sisters or their children at all. I shared a bed with five or maybe six
cousins, and I can’t remember them, only that I hated not being in my own
lovely white bedroom by myself. I remember kissing Oma and weeping, but I
didn’t even say good-bye to Bobe.
You think I should remember I was only a child? No.
Even a child has the capacity for human and humane behavior.
Each child was allowed one small suitcase for the
train. Oma wanted us to take leather valises from her own luggage—those had not
been of interest to the Nazis when they stole her silver and her jewels. But
Opa was more practical and understood Hugo and I mustn’t attract attention by
looking as though we came from a rich home. He found us cheap cardboard cases,
which anyway were easier for young children to carry.
By the day the train left, Hugo and I had packed and
repacked our few possessions many times, trying to decide what we couldn’t bear
to live without. The night before we left, Opa took the dress I was going to
wear on the train out to Oma. Everyone was asleep, except me: I was lying rigid
with nervousness in the bed I shared with the other cousins. When Opa came in I
watched him through slits in my closed eyes. When he tiptoed out with the
dress, I slid out of bed and followed him to my grandmother’s side. Oma put a
finger on her lips when she saw me and silently picked apart the waistband. She
took four gold coins from the hem of her own skirt and stitched them into the
waist, underneath the buttons.
“These are your security,” Opa said. “Tell no one, not
Hugo, not Papa, not anyone. You won’t know when you will need them.” He and Oma
didn’t want to cause friction in the family by letting them know they had a
small emergency hoard. If the aunts and uncles knew Lingerl’s children were
getting four
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