No Speaka

When I was in the eleventh grade, I got my first job.

Before I continue, two points of background:

1. A "shtiebel" (literally, "small house") is a house used as a Synagogue, in contradistinction with a building built exclusively as a Synagogue.
2. Part of the Sabbath morning prayer service is the chanting of a portion of the Torah. Since the Torah is written on a scroll, which lacks both vowels and the cantillation marks which indicate how the portion is to be read musically, most Synagogues employ someone to prepare the weekly Torah portion and that person, often called the baal koreh, chants the Torah each Sabbath in Synagogue.

So, when I was in the eleventh grade, a shtiebel, which had been in operation for many years, was seeking a baal koreh. Word got out that this was something that I did, and so I began to chant the Torah for them. I ended up spending four happy years at that Shtiebel as their baal koreh.

The services were held in the basement of a large house, about a twenty-minute walk from mine. About 30 men attended. A couple of young men and myself aside, the age range of the congregants was 60-80. There was a very positive energy about these older men, most of whom were originally from eastern Europe, and being in their presence was a very pleasant feeling for me. The shtiebel had a very gentle, relaxed, warm atmosphere.

The women's section -- in Orthodox Synagogues, men and women sit separately -- consisted of a small, dimly-lit adjacent room, with a small window into the main section. On a typical Sabbath, only one woman attended -- the woman who owned the house, who was the widow of the Rabbi who had begun the shtiebel, and had passed away several years earlier.

I remember just one thing about the first Sabbath I spent there.

After services were over, the men and I walked up the twelve or so steps to the side door, and then walked around to the front of the house. After a couple minutes of schmoozing in the driveway, we all started walking home, each man in his respective direction. Now it turned out that one of the older men and I found ourselves walking in the same direction, so we started to walk together.

A short, small man who was probably about 75 years old, he was speaking to me in a very animated manner. Problem was: (a) he was speaking Yiddish; and (b) I do not speaka da Yiddish. So I immediately stopped and interrupted him, and said to him, in as clear and loud (within the bounds of etiquette) manner as I could, articulating each word slowly and distinctly, so that there would be no misunderstanding:

I'M. VERY. SORRY. BUT. I. DO. NOT. SPEAK. YIDDISH.

The  man looked at me, paused for a brief moment, and then offered me a one-word response: "Shein", essentially Yiddish for "fine". And then, continued speaking to me in an animated manner. In Yiddish. Curses. My attempt to gain linguistic asylum had failed. I was trapped in the shackles of social etiquette. Resigned to the situation, I continued to walk with him, as he regaled me with tales of I'm not quite sure what. His latest escapades at the supermarket? Tales of his childhood? The mysteries of life? Stock tips that would make me a millionaire? I haven't an earthly clue.

Now the two qualities of this man of which I was most acutely cognizant at this particular juncture were: (a) he had an apparently inexhaustible reservoir of subjects to discuss; and (b) he was a rather slow walker. And so, the minutes dragged on and on, with him happily chatting away, and me, doing my best to keep an interested expression on my face.

Einstein's attempt to explain the theory of relativity to us common folk was:

"When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute and it's longer than any hour. That's relativity."

I wonder what Einstein would have said about listening to someone speak in Yiddish.

At any rate, after a relatively long time, my new friend and I arrived at a main intersection. At this juncture I had to turn and walk west, whereas he turned his body the other way, indicating that his domicile lay in the easterly direction. Elation! Go west, young man! Parting is such sweet delight! No person who has ever been rescued after spending years marooned on an island has ever felt a greater sense of relief.

But I was premature in my belief that my reprieve had come, for the man, instead of continuing to walk, instead, stopped, grabbed my arm, and continued talking. My heart sank, as I continued to be assailed with the gibberish sounds of an unintelligible language.

Eventually, some other impulse apparently overrode his considerable penchant to speak, for he finally bid me a Git Shabbos, and we parted.

This was far from the only such stroll. No, ladies and gentlementschen, this man and I shared many such post-shtiebel excursions in the years to come. While I would like to say that I learned to actually look forward to these jaunts, my capacity for transcending reality is not that good. But I think I did manage to tolerate them.

Interestingly enough, although I never had a clue as to the content of my friend's soliloquies, I learned to pick up the tenor of the discourse. So I would laugh out loud if I could tell that he had just shared with me a joke and sensed that he wanted someone to appreciate his wit. I would put on a long face, shake my head and emit either a "ts-ts-ts" or a guttural "huh", if it was clear to me that he had just told a tale of woe and wanted someone to commiserate. I even knew when the moment was right to throw out the occasional "uh-huh". And throughout, through my body language, punctuated by enthusiastic nods, I always strove to portray a sympathetic and interested audience.

My one fear was that sooner or later, one day he would stop and ask me a question based on what he had just told me, and would look at me expectantly, waiting for my reply. My entire facade would come crashing down, and my fraud would be exposed. Happily -- and not altogether surprisingly, given the dynamic -- this never occurred.

The one English word that would occasionally make its way into the conversation was, oddly enough, peoples. Invariably in the plural. So from my point of view, my landsman's locution sounded something like this:

Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword, Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword. Yiddishword peoples Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword; Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword -- Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword? Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword, Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword peoples Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword Yiddishword!

Oh, and by the way, the man's name? Kafka.