ISBN 0-312-04589-1 Perhaps once in a decade, a memoir comes along so urgent and undeniably stirring that it can tug at the hardest of heart strings- and etch vivid, unforgettable words on our imaginations. A haunting, bittersweet yet joyous recollection of grow- ing up as the hearing child of two deaf parents, In Silence is the story of Ruth Sidransky and her poignant experiences in the silent world of her family's household. It was a world where the bond between parent and child was strange and fragile, yet as unbreakable as the red ribbon Ruth's mother tied to her infant's body and her own, so she could detect any movement in the baby whose cries could not be heard. It was a world where people outside the home represented both threat and opportunity, where as a young girl Ruth was placed in a class for the mentally retarded because she spoke only sign language, until an astute principal recognized that she could both speak and hear. In Silence also offers a tender and loving evocation of a world gone by-a vanished city of close-knit Jewish neighborhoods, gatherings on street corners on summer nights, and the strength of a people who had to endure the poverty and turmoil of their place and time-the Bronx and Brooklyn of the 1930s and 1940s. The por- traits in the book are indelibly etched in our minds: Ruth's hardworking, laughing father whose Chaplinesque humor and skill at mime carried the family through its darkest, most impoverished times; the family friend who retained his pride while working as a street peddler; and, most powerfully, her beautiful mother, confused (continued from front f lap) and filled with rage at a God who had made her deaf in a world of sound, a world where she could never hear the voice of her child. Not least, In Silence is a stylistic triumph of the first magnitude. For the text manages to translate the syntax and structure of sign language into English. In its most funda- mental sense, the book is about language, about words expressed, with both anger and tenderness, signs, movements of love and pain-the overwhelming human need to communicate. Without question, In Silence is one woman's triumph over a lan- guage that is so formidable, so ineluctably different for those without voices, those without sound. RUTH SIDRANSKY was born on Clymer Street in Brooklyn before moving to the Bronx. She now lives in Pompano Beach, Florida. St. Martin's Press 175 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10010 IN SILENCE IN SILENCE Growing Up Hearing in a Deaf World RUTH SIDRANSKY ST. MARTIN'S PRESS NEW YORK The Talmud says: A word is worth one coin, silence two. -W 'm Contents Acknowledgements xi Family Tree xiii Prologue 1 PART ONE: My Beginnings 23 1. Hands 25 2. School Days 36 PART TWO: The World of My Parents 57 3. School for Benny and Mary 59 4. A Deaf World 79 5. Mary 100 6. Mary and Benny, a Love Story 118 7. Benny 138 8. Benny and Ruthie 168 PART THREE: Growing Up Hearing 181 9. Childhood Lost 183 10. When Other Children Die 202 11. Prayer 215 12. The West Bronx 230 13. Benny, My Touchstone 249 14. High School 261 15. Fantasies 279 16. College 287 PART FOUR: Voices 299 17. My Deaf Family 301 18. Benny Dies 307 19. Mary 315 Epilogue 327 x Contents Acknowledgments Above all I am grateful to the Deaf for a rich language. Sign. It is the language of my parents, my language, the language from which this writing bloomed. I want to thank those who made this book possible. Andrew Bromberg, who suggested the book, Marvin Fred- man, who listened to the stories, and Phoda Brown, who encouraged me to continue the writing. And to my son, Mark Hyman, and my daughter, Carrie Hyman, who gave gentle suggestions as they read the work in progress and who offered memories of their grandparents. And to my husband, Richard Rosenberg, whose support served as a shelter and whose good humor while I wrote made life a pleasure. I would like to offer special thanks to Berenice Hoffman, my agent, whose kindness sustained me over a two-year period and whose literary taste and skill helped me sculpt the manu- script. I wish to thank Robert-Well for his patient reading, for his faith, and for his invaluable insights into the editing of this book. Thanks also to Richard Romano, his assistant. And to Benny and Mary, my father and mother, I doff my hat! FAMILY TREE Sidransky PROLOGUE Keep silence before Me, 0 islands, And let the peoples renew their strength; Let them draw near, then let them speak,- . . . -Isaiah 41:1 If there were a way, if I could, I would write this book in sign language. I cannot. Signs do not transpose to the printed page; they are understood only in the flesh, hand to hand, face to face. And so I write in universal printed English, words to conjure the magic of my first language-words my mother taught me, words my father taught me-words told by the flick of a finger, the sweep of a hand. Sentences, liquid, rising not from the human voice but from the human body. My first memory is the memory of a word signed by my deaf mother. She signed the word baby for me, cradling an imaginary infant in her arms. She crooned the words with her voice, aloud, high-pitched and musical, to me. I was her baby, her firstborn. I can see her swaying, holding me to her, telling me to go to sleep. It was bedtime. Words fell from her hands and I learned them, imitating them like any child, in any language. My language, like my mother's, was in my hands. My spoken language, until I was five, was like hers, broken. My father Benny's deaf voice was harsh to the hearing ear. But not to mine. He put me on his shoulders and danced me around the room, hands silent. He was holding my ankles. He sang. What it was I do not know. I can hear him, but I can't repeat his song. When he put me down he wanted to play. He teased and we laughed. All in sign. We lived in two worlds as I was growing up, our private world and the "hearing" world outside. I was on intimate terms with silence and the language of silence. But my parents' oral words hit hearing ears like jagged stones on rooftops. And 1, a small child, hung my head, unable to speak in clear sentences. Benny stroked my head and signed, "Never mind, hear- ing not understand deaf words. Stupid people." My ears tightened. When I was a child we lived in isolation, celebrating life in our quiet enclave. My mother signed, "I have three nice rooms." And in those three nice rooms, with "good furni- tures," I grew up. My younger brother Fred and 1. My mother washed clothes on a metal washboard on cold winter afternoons and created a festival. "I make warm steam, make rooms warm for children, snow outside ', but here I wash and you wring and we have small party for us alone." Her mouth still, her fluent hands signaled, "Come use hands, I show you, together we do, and then you alone, Ruth." With five-year-old hands I twisted the warm water from my undershirt. My mother said now, both in sign and voice, "Use hands harder, harder, use hands and squeeze to make a clothing dry." The language was perfect. was perfect. Here she was not deaf, here no one stared at my mother's 4 Ruth Sidransky wonderful sign song. We were in harmony and I was warm. But not safe. I was sickly. My mother explained, "You have tonsils infections, make you sick too often, running nose, coughing." I looked at her in trust. And she signed, "Tomorrow we o to a hospital, nice place, there good doctor cut out bad tonsils, make you well and after you eat lots and lots cool ice cream." My mother held my small obedient hand and led me to the hospital. I lay on the operating table and struggled to stay awake, to remain alive. I was frightened of the damp ether mask that put me to sleep. I awakened after the surgery with a cold, thick, red sausage-like ring around my neck. I vomited. I tried to speak. " Momma," I signed, "I have no voice." "You have voice. Be patient. Tomorrow you will speak. Today you will sign to me. I will tell nurse what you want. She will understand my speak words." My voice did return but the fear of never being able to speak lingered on. I was confused. I had questions to ask, but I was too young to form them. I was afraid: afraid of silence, afraid of unknown sound, afraid of my distorted voice. The years passed and more questions formed. I did not ask the questions; I kept them hidden as my mother did. She waited for me at the fifth-floor window when I arrived home from high school, waving me back into her life. When she wasn't at her window, I knew I would find her deep in conversation, alone. I climbed the stairs to our apartment, opened the door with my key and paused to listen for my mother. I walked through the living room to her bedroom. She didn't sense my presence. I saw her shake her fist in the air twice. I saw her plead for an answer: "Why did you make me deaf? I am good IN S I L EN C E 5 person, why you punish me?" With her hands still signing the last words of her question, I touched her and signed, "Momma, who are you talking to? "I talk to God and ask why he make me to be deaf, to hear nothing for all my life, why I never hear the voice of my children?" Her hands were almost still as she spoke. I tried to interrupt, but she went on. "I am angry with God today! " Momma," I tried again. "Do not stop me," she blazed. "Tomorrow I will forgive God, not today. Why me, why my brother jack, deaf, why my baby sister, Rose, deaf, suffer too much? Why can you hear and not me, your mother?" I watched, too frightened to utter a sound or sign a word lest God strike sound from me too. Her anger entered me and I pressed it down into my childhood, my adolescence. She looked at my face and her rage quieted. She shrugged and signed softly, "Nobody knows why, maybe it just happened." Maybe she was right. I believe now that her deafness was random genetic chance. Maybe there is neither biological nor logical reason; maybe it was merely happenstance. Many years later, during my first year of college, a year filled with learning, I attempted to explain the physical reason for her deafness. She discarded my words. Instead, she hinted at sin; she halfheartedly suggested that her father, Abraham, had a venereal disease. And so God punished him. She was looking for a cause, a reason to Justify her deafness. When I carefully outlined in simplified terms the Men- delian law of genetics, when I drew pictures of recessive and dominant genes for her, signing that deafness was a recessive one, she crumpled my biological diagram angrily in her hand. " You, " she signed, "do not understand the ways of God." 6 Ruth Sidransky The subject was forever closed. She could accept 111- ness as a cause for her deafness but had difficulty with a God who made her eternally deaf. She turned from God, and asked me, as she did all the years of my life, to be her ears, her voice. When I was no longer so afraid of sound, no longer sealed in solemn silence, I searched for the source of my voice through the sound of my mother's voice. What was the source of her voice? Was hers a voice that never heard sound, yet imitated words intelligibly for me, a voice that came out of nothingness, out of the void of human consciousness, or was it a voice of some immutable human genetic memory that spoke to the ages, that speaks for the ages? Was the simplicity with which she spoke related to a message that God meant to give me through her, or was I "just searching, looking for more than there was? Was she simply deaf, mute in the nuance of the spoken word? Was that all it was? Was I searching for my own voice in the path of my mother's silence? When I was still in high school, I w;alked the streets alone, my mother's fist echoing in my eyes. I walked as I always did, head high, and I called out with my hands, "God, can you hear me? Listen, God!" I shook my fist, "Listen to me. I am calling you. Speak to me!" People passed in twos and threes. They stared and I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, but I kept my ques- tions going, mouthing them internally. "God, do you speak English? Do you know sign language? I can teach you. God talk to me." There was no answer. I stopped talking to God, orally, in sign. I spoke to my mother: -Can you hear God's voice, Momma? Can I? I know that the hand of God calms me as your hand does. I like the IN S I L EN C E 7 sound of your voice. But you'll never hear mine, the sound of my voice. I made a wish, the wish to hear satisfying speech, to hear Momma speak. I sent my own sounds ahead and tried to see them vibrating in the air. I wanted to see sound. I sat in perfect -silence, thinking that the deaf must see sound, that sight and I 1 sound were somehow laced together; that maybe I too could see it. I spread my voice over the air, playing with it, trying to sound like a man, like an infant, like a deep-throated woman. I played with my voice as I had once played with my dolls. I pr "jected it, I swallowed it, whispered, pleaded, played with the tones. When I went to school, I relished telling others who asked me to sing in chorus, "Oh, I can't do that, I'm tone deaf." It connected me, anchored me to parental history. It was a lie. I wasn't tone deaf. I refused to hear music. In my bed, in that space before sleep, when I was fully awake, I thought and the thoughts were loud. I addressed my mother once again: -I can hear the exhalation of my breath, hear the beat- ing of your heart when I press my head to your chest; I can hear the sound of my life. Why can't you hear yours? I hear myself sniff the perfumed aroma of a rose. I hear you snore. I hear the sound of my own voice as it reaches out across the enclosed room. I can hear people speak. I have heard their words lifted across a crowded room full of scattered sound, full of energy, coming directly to me. I can hear the birds, even the flutter of winged birds in flight, swooping from the ground. Can I give you sound? Your silence is a deep chasm, a hole I will fill with the embroidered pretense of sound. "Oh!" I bear you shout. :, What was that? I hear something loud." "Loud," you say. 'Do you know what loud is?" 8 Ruth Sidransky I can ask you, as I did when I was young, "Momma, why does the ocean stop here? Why does the sea sound so loud?" Could you have answered these questions? -Momma, you told me of horse-drawn sleighs and 'piles of winter snow lining the country lanes of your child- pi 1 1 1 hood. I wondered, did you hear the sleigh bells? You told me of the horse's breath steaming from his nostrils, but you never told me of the horses' hooves as they thudded to the snow-packed road. You told me of the fields of clean green grass but did you ever tell me how the growing grass sings in the wind? Once, in hand-to-hand conversation, my mother asked if the yellow tulip had a sound of its own. I couldn't tell her that color was devoid of sound; she seemed convinced that color and sound were bonded. So I told her that red was loud like a summer sunset, that black had the sound of a thunder crack, that blue sounded like cool running water on her hands, that purple sounded like grapes, that silver sounded like moonrise, that pink was like red without the anger. She wanted to know about yellow. What could I tell her about yellow? I told her that yellow sounds like the soft morning sun that melts the winter ice. My hands were flowing when she stopped me. "Does color really make noise?" "No, it does not." "To say truth, I never believe colors have noise, but nice to think so. Better, I feel color." She smiled and her hands, slowly, one word at a time, signed, "I am 'jealous that people can hear and I cannot." I held that sentence to me for years trying to help her hear visually, to help her hear with her own acute senses. It was no use. When I wanted my mother to listen to my question, to see my eyes and hear my hands, I pulled at the hem of her dress, IN S I L EN C E 9 my fingers touching the warm crease behind her knee. She responded quickly, "You not little girl anymore." I waited. I tapped her right elbow with my left hand poised for speech; she turned to face me and my hand at- tempted to ask a question; she answered before I could sign a word, "Don't bother me, I busy on cleaning rooms, must to dust furnitures." I was rebuffed into silence. I wanted to ask only one question that I framed and reframed in her language. "Momma, explain to me what is no sound, what is quiet? How you understand what mean silence?" When her work was done, her face washed, her arms rinsed of lather, her hair combed and recombed, her voice called out, singing my name. I had only to reach out and touch her shoulder. She signed , You stand near to me, watch me clean myself in a sink. I not see you close to me. Not feel you. Now I ready listen you, what you want?" She scanned my face. "You have thinking lots, not tell me what you want." "Too hard, Momma. I think about angels who sing. You think angels are real?" She raised her hands to speak: " Yes, of course angels are real. God's angels, and my angel; you are angel daugh- ter Ruth." My father, Benny, defied silence, ignored sound. He had his own words. "The finger of God is in my fingers. You think I finger sign, no, it is God who go in my hands, in my fingers to make language so deaf can speak. God smart, he understand deaf words." His eyes touched mine. "God and me, we touch hands to speak. He draw whole earth with his fingers; I draw language with fingers." Benny created the letter L in each hand, thumb 10 Ruth Sidransky out, index finger up, the other fingers curved into his palm. He danced his thumb tips together, moved his thumbs apart, his index fingers erect as he moved his hands to the full breadth of his arms. In this span he wave-signed the word language. It was a reverent description of his contact with God. "Language is best." Benny wanted to speak well. And he spoke magnificently with his talking hands, his talking face and his talking body. "God gave me fingers to be funny man, to make me laugh. You think God really true put his fingers to my head?" He was asking me about God, waiting to see if I would divulge the secret that God spoke to me directly. He wanted to know why God touched the soundless with His hand and not with His voice. I didn't say, "Daddy Ben, you stand in direct contact with God." In adolescence I had no signed vocabulary for "direct contact"; finger spelling was inadequate to the task. Instead my hands said, "You stand with God, close," each word described in its own sign, clear in his language. "God bless you, " he said. He wrinkled his nose, leaned over and kissed me. I pushed him away. "Don't kiss so hard. Your mustache scratches my cheek!" He had the wildness of the animals he taught me to know. Nothing stood between him and his God. His access was direct. He didn't know a single prayer or hymn. He signed, "Ruth, you hearing, you pray for father Ben. God understands what means I say through you." I was responsible for him before God. But he had his own covenant, he had no need of me. He had his own voice, a voice without imitation. At times it was soft and purring and when he tried to use his purring voice to sing a phrase or a melody he had watched on I N S I L E N C E 11 another's lips, 1 tried not to laugh - . It was funny. H's vo' ice was purer than song. It was full of his own light. At times it was heavy, guttural, unintelligible even to me. But it was always the voice of a man, deep in the low registers, able to inflict anger, scorn and contempt. This was rare. It was a joyous voice, bounding with excitement, fingerpainting the passing person. He signed, "See peoples in a street, learn what stories they tell, look at clothings, see if they have fat ass." And I laughed. Benny was filled with laughter. It was his walking stick. He took me to watch the trains at Grand Central Station, to watch the people as they poured onto the platforms, scurry- ing to their lives. "See people with sad face, unhappy walk. Not me, not Ben. Faces show too much pain from their life." He was undefeated. He transformed pain into humor, into a 'joke. His hands moved to say, "People out, train is out, gone from station." He played with his arms and hands; his arms chugged along the train track going nowhere, his nostrils snorted imaginary steam rising from the locomotive pulling life's passengers to their destination. "Train go nowhere, peo- ple not know where they go. Too bad. Better to laugh at life. Make easier hard time." He was proud, defiant, servant to none. He made de- mands on himself and me. In exchange for my sustenance and his gift of life, I was his teacher, his translator when complex paragraphing gagged him. His spirit was voracious; it burned with curiosity. "Hurry come see this." It was a shout I knew well, a shout to share something be had seen. And on the ground a dead pigeon lay. "See Ruth, it not die by self, it eat a poison, man put there. Too bad kill God's pigeon, stop wings to fly free." I recolled, hunched my shoulders. He pulled me to him, lifting my face to his hands, and signed, "Not bad see death, 12 Ruth Sidransky God make life, must see all, know all. Life, death, all big thrill." I remembered his words when I saw him moments after his own death. He was blue, hair black, young again. My own view of his life was molded by his hands, his thoughts in his hands. He believed I was his teacher. He was mine. There were no frills to his teachings, nothing to veer me from fundamental knowledge. He ordained acceptance. He preached rapture and never knew the word. When regret bit him, he put it aside. "Not important deaf, I am Ben," he said without reluctance. His consent was si 'lent. "Love to live, who know what life bring to each person, wait, watch and see." His hands moved and unerringly he prayed in tribute to his Maker. He did not suffer deafness. He was no job. ", he said 'n majestic sign again, "my name My name I 1 1 1 is Ben. And I can do what other man do. I support my family alone, nobody help me." His attachment to life was erotic, to my mother passion- ate. When he was seventy-nine years old, we sat together and his hands remembered, "We have family, we have Momma Mary." He stood before her beauty, took pictures of her and called her "Queen." "You believe I have success to win Mary for wife." Momma smiled at him, prodding him to continue. "Many people love your Momma Mary when she was young. So beautiful. She had another boy who like her, his first name wolf, he ask her to go out. I am uneasy, but she find out he is two-faced, he is engaged to another girl. I feel better. I take Momma out on a canoe, we go in water, wonderful water, smooth lake. She not know how to swim, but I am not afraid, I swim strong enough for two people. We had some troubles, not tell YOU, all in past, long ago before you born, not your story, only story of me and Momma. We marry. Good times I N S I L E N C E 13 with Mary. Sometimes troubles, sometimes poor, work hard, but always Mary wait for me at home with good dinners, clean children." My mother, still beautiful, watched his old hands, looked directly at me, her biographer, and signed, "I tell you many stories, often, on me and Daddy Ben, all long time ago. I have more story, one. As my mother paused to collect her thoughts, to tell me yet another family tale, I remembered the times that she had told me of her frightened heart, her blank silence. I remem- bered her hands worn with work as she signed her memories, again and again for me. She questioned God about her deaf- ness, but never said, "God grant me the power to hear." She 'd, "I know I am silent woman." Sal 1 She asked questions. She wanted to know. "How does the 1 h's voice hard like voice of my son Fred sound? Tell me, s 1 1 hammer? You are girl, is your voice soft like fur? Explain to me. Lift up hands, move your fingers. Tell me. The radio is warm. Are words from voice warm? Now you must tell me. Where does noise sound go? Far away?" To me in these times of pleading she was the golden stranger, the alien without human sound. No voice penetrated her human awareness, but she had perception-her own warmth, her own knowing. She stomped her foot on the floor for my attention. She turned to my father. "Ben, you watch me now. I am ready. I tell you now, story, I never, never tell before." She began, "I am thirteen, fourteen years old. Rose not born yet. I am only girl in family. Nathan, oldest brother, sign, but not good. He not understand. Sometimes he put thumbs in ears and make sign of 'dummy.' I understand he not under- stand. I forgive, he young boy. My father not understand sign language, only few signs. I teach him to say 'Russia' his country. And Sam, my brother, younger than me, he learn 14 Ruth Sidransky I F- more signs, like my father, but we not talk much. Sam in hospital long time. Bad legs. I not understand what family say-to me, to each other. I had heard this part many times, the repetition etched into my brain. But this time she continued on, "I was alone in my home with my mother, Fanny. I ashamed tell you. She talk to me. More talk, sign something. I not understand what she say. I so angry that I punch her, punch her over and over again on arm. My mother say nothing, she not angry; she let me punch until I finish. Not long. She understand I do not understand. After finished she kissed me. I never do again, hurt me to hit my mother." And with a long sweep of her hands rising from mid- chest she signed the word still with both hands and then the sentence, "Still not understand." My father changed the subject, lightened the mood. "Forget past, it is over. Many years finished. I have other question here in newspaper, I have new word to learn." He grinned. "I ask you dictionary daughter Ruth, what means word explicit?" "Explicit?" I repeated, signing each letter. "Yes that word," and his words to me were oral. "It means very, very clear, exact, clear." Annoyed, he signed, "Why did not newspaper writer say that? So many hard words, makes not easy to understand what I read." His white mustache lifted into his cheeks as he smiled; he was pleased, another word was added to his life. My mother said, "I have word to ask too. I see in newspaper this morning." It was a rare request. "What is the word, Momma?" I asked indulgently. She pointed and said, "It is large word, intuition. Explain to me slow, right way. I want to understand." I heard my response caught in my throat, unspoken. I N S I L E N C E 15 -How can I tell you about intuition, you who kissed my tears away and said, "Cry is good, make you feel better, make hurt less." Momma pushed my shoulder. "You quiet long time, you not know word, not very smart." Her face smiled at me. "You too serious now." I signed quickly, "Intuition tells about understanding in the heart without words. It says, 'I know and I cannot explain how I know.' That is all, it is to know without language." Satisfied with my answer, she said, in voice, "I go make lunch, you stay with Ben, keep company, talk lots." And she moved with grace from the room. And in that space alone with my father as he read the newspaper, I remembered my own childhood, my own adoles- cence. I never spoke to anyone as I was growing up about my 'lent vista, my struggle with sound, not ever, not once. I held si 1 this blemish of creation to my chest. There was vastness to God's silence, an emptiness that reached across the earth, that spoke of eternal sorrow, job's sorrow. I blundered into silence that bashed me with its darkness. And in these dark moments when I was young, Benny rescued me, alive, always alive, pulsing with life. He rushed to work, keys Jangling in his pockets, arms h waving behind his ears, signing the word hurry simultaneously in each hand: "I go to work, not be late, boss angry." The deaf are never late. I am never late. It is an internal clock that speaks to time. My father gave me an alarm clock when I entered high school. "This for you, wake up right time, never be late for school." I hid the clock under my sweaters. I couldn't bear the incessant tick tock, the relentless noise. I rose from my bed each morning without the alarm startling me to the day's beginning. "Where is clock I gave you? You must have!" 16 Ruth Sidransky "I do not need it, Daddy, I wake up like you do. I have my inside 'de clock same as you." He laughed. "So you little bit deaf like me. Your body same as mine. But remember you are hearing girl, not deaf. You must listen to life, for you, for me, for Momma. Impor- tant you understand time in hearing world." I was angry. I didn't want his time. I wanted my own, free of his need. His sense of time frayed me. He rushed time, anxious to please his boss, afraid that he would lose his uphol- stering job. In age his temper was in tranquil time. His sense of rush gone, quiet. But the energy of his manhood is what I remem- ber. His strength of hand, of will and body, permeated my childhood. I can still see him now and he says , Be strong, be a man. Ben strong." He clenches his fist, curls his arm, flexes his biceps and commands, "Touch father Ben, see father Ben, strong man, steel man." I move away from his boasting. "I not show off-, I tell you truth, who I am. Come touch Ben, true strong arm." I reach out to touch him. "Wait," he says, putting both his hands up, palms flat, nearly touching my face, "I fix sleeve." He rolls up his sleeve to show me his rippling strength. The muscle quivers when I touch him. "Watch Daddy Ben, make fun now." He places his hand on his head, flexes his muscle again, rolling it for me. I stroke his arms, undismayed now, and laugh with him. "I told you, Ben strong, not afraid, never." He is free, fearless for the moment, and stone deaf. "Not afraid like you and Momma. You, Ruth, must not be afraid, you must be a man sometimes. Better for girls to know to be like a man. I know you not like this. I know you are girl, but girl must have man inside her tool make you brave person. This, I Ben, teach you." I N S I L E N C E 17 . . .. -. - .--m n I had been afraid; it was my mother's fear woven into me from infancy. We fought once, my mother and 1, many years later. She came to visit me, to see her grandchildren. And her eyes watched me as I talked to my daughter, my young son. My back was turned to her but she could see the children's oral response. She was momentarily excluded from my language, my facial expression. I turned immediately and apologized. She turned to me and signed in bitterness, "Better you be deaf, Ruth. Then you and I could be friends." So great was my rage that she would curse me with her silence that I took her bodily and put her out of my house. Hours later she came back and said, "I am sorry. Better you hear. I not mean what I say. Sometimes, I am lonely in big space. No one understand me." And I asked aloud, "Who understands you Momma? Who understands me?" She was abrupt. "Do not speak in mouth words. Sign to me. I want understand." I signed my words. She answered, "I understand you and you understand me. It takes all one's life to understand." She put her arms around me. There were no tears. "When you were little baby, even little girl, you were afraid to sleep alone. Do you remember?" Yes, I remembered. "I did not leave you alone in the night. I stay with you and rock you to sleep, until you were maybe seven, eight years old." I nodded my head. She continued, "When I take you home, little baby from 18 Ruth Sidransky hospital, nobody there to help me hear you cry. I afraid you smother. So I take a long red ribbon, tie it to your wrist and my wrist. Your crib was next to my bed. When you move, my hand move too. I wake up to see what my baby need. I stay close to you." It was the first time she spoke of my fear. I didn't tell her of the night sounds that struck my child's heart, that made me tremble under the bedcovers. I didn't tell her about the strange noises that assailed my acute hearing. I didn't tell her about the clang of metal garbage cans that woke me from restless sleep. It was enough that she knew I had been afraid, just as she had been. Not Benny. I smiled at him sitting beside me. I touched him gently. He was old now. His head came up with his hands. "Want to play new words, make up for fun, like before when you were little girl?" Benny romanced language. It was the touchstone of his life. He demanded language, cajoled meanings from faces, from pages, from the dictionary, from confounding spoken words. At times the written sentence, the written word con- founded my father more than the lips he strained to read. He circled one hand over the other, circled fingertips to fingertips, telling me of his confusion. The wider he signed the circles for the word confusion, the greater his confusion was. He preferred the captioned photographs in Life maga- zine. The photographs, stark black and white, simply cap- tioned, told the story. This he understood. He subscribed to the magazine, and each week on Fridays, during the years I lived at home, he gathered me to him with his oral words. "Come now, listen Ben read in loud voice from Life book. I practice plenty in bathroom." His voice fractured sound. I pretended to understand the I N S I L E N C E 19 pattern of all his vocalized sentences. Sometimes I understood only one. And then I said, "Now Daddy, tell mc in sign what mean all words you read." More eloquent than spoken words, he interpreted the meaning of the captioned photograph in accurate, untranslat- able sign. He pulled his chair closer to mine, pushed back his thick I ive, 1 white hair and signed, "I tell you language 's al' 1-like a I few words person, like a river, always change, always n . We make words. Hearing people not try to understand deaf lan- guage, but deaf try to understand hearing language. Not need to speak to know language. I late to learn my language, never really learn hearing language, to speak with tongue well, but Ian separate s ign language is real guage, separate from English, s from tongue language. It is first language from God, before man talk with mouth." He paused to see if I understood his words. He nodded at my comprehending eyes and continued with his powerful hands. "I see more in one minute, understand more in deaf sign than you hear in speech words. You must wait for words to speak, one after the other, but i see meaning all at once in a face." He was never confused in his own language. The steep line of sign, the ascent of language as it rose from Benny's arms, created a mountaintop. It told of the perilous journey of a deaf man up a large mountain, told of per his courage as he described the words, "Climb higher, higher to new life every day," with his hands in the air. This is silence. This is how he taught me, the movement of movement; his language was motion and in his motion I understood the sweep of his daring. The signs were smooth, no -olting, no 'erring, no snapping fingers. He pondered the meaning of life delicately with his square hands: "You go up 20 Ruth Sidransky a hill, always, up and up, sometimes fall down, but go up, hope is up." Benedictions for Benny. He knew language in a way that I never will. He danced it from his soul. To him language was a mantle, wearable. To Momma, language was tenderness, a protective touch, a means to tell me her stories, to hold me close to her life. And together, they brought me to a language beyond signed words. I N S I L E N C E 21 .--m a p i Part One MY BEGINNINGS One HANDS Pleasant words are as a honeycomb, Sweet to the soul, and health to the bones. -Proverbs 16.-24 looked for my mother at the window. She waited for me to appear every afternoon on my return from school. I was five years old and warned not to cross the cobblestoned street until she waved me on in sign language. I raised my hand to the second story of our brownstone building to see her smile me home. She put her head out the window, looked both ways, and when she was certain that the South Eighth Street trolley car was nowhere in sight, she signed sharply in the language of the deaf, "Come now!" I raced across the street secretly pleased that she did not scream as the other mothers did from Brooklyn windows. Her language was silent and did not shame me. Men were standing in front of our building in small groups, hands in their pockets, with nowhere to go, mothers with young husbands and babies, all waiting. I didn't under- stand that they were waiting for the Depression to end, that they had their own shame. I wanted to be invisible that af- ternoon. When I went inside, I stopped at my grandparents' apart- ment, wanting to talk to one of my father's young sisters, wanting to keep the sound of speech with me a little longer. My Aunt Sylvia came to the door. "Hi, Ruthie, hurry upstairs, your mother is waiting for you, you don't want her to worry, do you?" I was afraid of the dark wooden staircase but that wasn't why I lingered before climbing it. Once I entered our apart- ment, the door closed on the hearing world. My voice became the voice of my hands and I became a deaf little girl with ears that could hear. I walked up the brown narrow flight of steps slowly, into the rooms we called home. The hallway was long and narrow, windowless. One naked ceiling bulb gave it light. I rushed past the bathroom, down the corridor, past the square skylit kitchen, into the light of the front room facing the street with two large windows, and into my mother's presence. "Hello Momma," I mouthed. She read my lips. She hugged me with her thick warm arms, smelling like Momma, sweet with the scent of Oxydol soap. "I finished washing diapers. We go out soon. Fresh air good. I get baby Freddie." :'l have to pee, Momma." 'Hurry up, I need go shopping. You talk at meat store for me. Please tell butcher not cheat me, like last time. Too much fat." I cringed at the unwanted burden of speech. "All right," I signed, "I'll be quick." I didn't say what I felt. I couldn't name the feeling. instead I smiled and walked with my mother to the door. She settled my two-year-old brother into the faded blue wicker carriage, took my hand and said in her shrill voice, "Hold carriage here, we push together." Her strength bumped the carriage down the steps one at a time until we reached the street. I loved our side of the street. The old brownstones nestled together. Mothers were out with their children. The older girls marked the street with chalk preparing the afternoon potsy game. It was years before I knew the game was a Brooklyn version of hopscotch. The boys knelt at the curbside playing with their prized marbles and called them "immies" and wor- ried about their patched pants. Families lived their afternoon lives on the street. It was playtime. And South Eighth Street was a vast playground. We walked down the street. My mother never stopped to speak to a neighbor; she moved regally, nodding her head, glancing at the familiar faces. She was dressed, coiffed, immac- ulate and beautiful. I was clean, but not beautiful. My tiny horn-rimmed glasses covered my crossed eyes. My mouth was closed to hide the missing front teeth I'd lost in an acrobatic somersault. My father tossed me in the air one night in play and I landed teeth-first on our brown enamel kitchen table. I heard a neighbor say, "Hello, Mary, how are the children?" I tugged at my mother's skirt. "Mrs. Eisen says to tell you hello." Without breaking her stride, she lifted one hand from the carriage and said, "Tell her hello too. I hurry to store to buy foods for our supper." As we walked, eyes were upon us. Voices spoke as though I were not there. "Did you see Mrs. Sidransky? How does she do it? Raise two little children." Another voice. "They look healthy. They're clean. The little girl talks. She can hear." Yes, I could hear. I hated the butcher shop. The smell of freshly killed chickens and cows clogged my nostrils in waves of nausea. The sawdust on the floor clung to my shoes on rainy afternoons. Blood and chicken entrails smeared the butcher's block. I watched wide-eyed as the heavy cleaver split the chicken. My mother never bought a chicken until she saw the healthy viscera sliding through the butcher's fingers. In one swift motion, he clutched and dropped the slime into a bucket half-filled with animal waste. I clenched my teeth. "It's your turn, girlie, what does your pretty mother want today?" My mother signed, "Tell him neck bones for soup, no fat and one lung for stew meat. Tell him save me a good whole chicken for Friday, yellow skin." I repeated her words in spoken English, adding some of her omitted words. The butcher rubbed his solid blood-grimed hands across his aproned paunch. He spoke words to me. I cast my eyes down to the counter filled with steaks and veal chops, ground meat and curved lamb chops on chipped enamel trays. I did not speak again. My task was done. I had to save my words for the vegetable vendor, for the grocer. When the shopping was done, our pace was leisurely 'I we arrived home. Safely flanked by 100 South Eighth unti Street, our home, my mother leaned against the building in the sunlight and signed, "You good girl, help Momma, now go play with friends." I didn't want to leave her safe boundaries. She pushed me away from the carriage. "Go play, children must play." I left her sanctuary, wary of the girls jumping rope in front of the adjoining brownstone. I turned and looked at my mother, waiting for her to rescue me from these little hearing girls, with hearing mothers. 28 Ruth Sidransky She was adamant. "Go play," she signed, "I watch you, not leave you alone." I didn't move. She raised her voice, and shouted to a child she recog- nized, "Anna, come take Ruthie play!" I understood her. I knew that Anna did not. Her unintelligible speech made my skin prickle, and I fled from the sound. Anna greeted me with, "What did your mother say?" I fumbled some words and said, "Can I 'ump rope with you?" "Do you know Double Dutch?" "Yes," I lied. "You have to turn the ropes first and let have her turn next. I held the heavy ropes in my small hands, turning the two laundry lines in cadence. I didn't want the ropes to hurt my speaking hands. I was playing. The minutes passed and my long, thin legs jumped in and out of the turning ropes. We were talking and laughing, and counting-', two, four, six, eight"-when my mother's voice pealed across my head: "Ruthie, come upstairs now, I cook supper." "Open icebox, put meat inside. I put baby in crib." "Hurry up, I late, four o'clock now. Louis K. come for supper. Wednesday night." Louis Kazansky. How I loved him. He was my family's deaf uncle. My mother and father's friends came on regular days of the week. Some I know even now by the days of the week-Mr. Thursday came only on Thursdays after supper. I never learned his name, he never used his voice, and his signs were made without facial expression. I did not like him. He was undeaf. But Louis K., as we called him, was my favorite. I waited for Louis at the threshold of our living room door every Wednesday. I watched the hands on the clock and advised my mother, "Louis K. coming soon. I go open door for him." At five sharp he was in the door. -He picked me up in h's short arms and hugged me. He put me down and we proceeded with our weekly ritual. He clenched his fist and shoved it in my mouth-waiting for me to bite, to rage at every sound I heard, to punish him for every sound he did not. It was a fair exchange. My young teeth couldn't damage his nicotine-stained fist. We shared the pain of silent sound. The void was terrible. There was no one at home with whom I could share the sound, no one to explain the meaning of sound, of this sound, of that sound. Is that the sound of a bird? Is that the sound of rain? I could not connect sound to movement. The rustle of leaves in a high wind terrified me. Freddie was only two years old and he clung to me for comfort. The only sounds that comforted me were the off- pitch, guttural voices of the people who held me-my mother, my father, and their deaf friends who came on assigned days of the week for signed human companionship. One night they held me in illness. It was a time before I entered school; it was a time before my brother was born. My nose was wet, my ears were wet and I was hot. The sound was running out of my ears. The doctor came. And I heard muffled voices from my small bed. I was not yet three years old. I heard pencils scratch- ing on paper, my mother asking questions, the doctor writing instructions. He talked as he wrote. "Her ears are infected. You must drain the pus from them three times a day with warm oil." I called , " Doctor, come." He gently, but quickly, ripped the tape from my ears and soothed, "You will be fine Ruthie, do what your Momma tells you." He went back to the kitchen, and I heard voices and pencils 'Is: "Do not tape her ears to her head." I heard the pencil again. And the doctor said, "Her ears 30 Ruth Sidransky are not too big, they do not stick out, they are perfect." He 'd each word distinctly. And he left. sal I 1 My mother picked me up and walked to the kitchen. Louis K. was sitting on the white wooden kitchen chair, ready to receive me with outstretched arms. I nuzzled him. My mother placed a rubber sheet over my small body, while Louis held me tightly to him. She dipped an ear dropper into a vial of pungent oil and leaked searing hot liquid into my left ear. I screamed, "Burn, too hot, too hot." l,ouis K. crooned to me. ' 'Good baby girl Ruth, good baby, good girl." I flailed and screamed, and he held me, until there was no more oil. It was over and I was in bed again, safe. She sat beside me and sang in voice, her lullaby, until I fell into exhausted sleep. Years later when I repeated my memory of this incident to her, she looked at me in surprise and asked, "Why didn't you tell me the oil was too hot?" "Louis K. was holding my hands", I answered. When my father came home there was laughter, rollick- ing, rolling laughter. He was strong and handsome; his thick black wavy hair fell into his black laughing eyes. When he kissed me, I pushed his bristled mustache from my tender skin. His hands, thick and squared off at the tips, smelled of the sweet horse hair at the upholstery factory. His fingernails carried the cotton lint he used to stuff overstuffed satin sofas. His fingers were so big that he could not button his shirts; my mother did this for him. Tired and worn out at the end of the long days of stuffing couch cushions, loveseat cushions and armchair cushions, he balled his hands into fists and smashed the walls with his talking hands-and said with his voice, proudly, "Ben strong, very strong." He grabbed me, and tossed me in the air. He held me fast with his fingers, so fast that my arms were covered with black I N S I L E N C E 31 1 ime and blue marks the size of h's fingertips. We spent little t' together. He worked days and nights. He brought his money home and gave it to my mother to pay for the next day's meals. Some nights he found no extra work; on those 'joyous nights we had him at home. Funny Benny. Strong Benny. He entertained us lavishly. He was a mime, be was a Chaplinesque artist. He sat us down after our supper, very quietly, very still, and signed, "Stay there, no move. You watch Daddy Ben!" It was a command performance. "Lights out! You go, baby Ruth!" His hands and voice spoke together. When I heard him behind the door, I put the lights out, and crept, frightened of the dark, to my mother and brother on the sofa. We waited. Out he came, with a squashed hat, a cane, splayed feet, 'wiggling shoulders, his jacket sleeves shoved up to his elbows, wiggling his mustached lips and nose, twirling his cane. My mother's hands were gleeful: "Look, look, Charlie Chaplin." He strutted across the room, miming the great sad mime. He played the dumb fool, slyly, for each one of us. He paraded heroically, demanding attention. Back and forth he went across the room, mocking those who didn't know that neither he nor Chaplin was dumb. If the world saw him as a simpleton whose tongue could not speak, he knew he was a man of courage, the man who would, if he could speak, outsmart them all. Chaplin spoke to my father with his body and his mournful eyes. My father paid him tribute with his loving interpretations, charming us all with his body wit. When they were both old, my father saw a televised tribute to Chaplin and wept. "Why you cry, Daddy?" "He is old man now, die soon." I invited my friends to our home; I invited only those who did not shrink at the sound of my father's voice. He 32 Ruth Sidransky reveled in the display of his talent for them. They loved him, applauded him with their small hands as he played the Little Tramp for each one of them. "Don't clap now, I said, "he can't hear you. Wait until the lights go on; then he can see you." They clapped anyway. When the performance was over, the girls and boys gathered around him as he patted their heads, gave one the cane, another his hat, another his slippers. Patiently, he taught them how to move, how to be sad like the great master. I refused to mime Chaplin. I would not play the dumb fool. I would speak my sadness. I was not dumb, nor was I deaf I was a stranger, at home. My mother, not to be outdone by my father, came grinning at us as we circled him. She took each of us by our hands and sat us at my father's feet. As she sat us down, she put her index finger over her curved mouth and whispered, shh, shh, with great mystery. "Wait, quiet, she shrilled. "No move." All eyes were upon me as I repeated her words to the children as she left the room. We sat expectantly. In a moment, she was out the bedroom door, facing us. She turned her hands inward, thumbs tucked in, eight fingers open, pointing at her eyes. "Watch me. I dance for you." I interrupted, "Want me put light out, Momma?" "No, I want light, full light, so all children can see me," she signed. She paused, looking down her heavy young body, de- manding that we listen with our eyes. Her dress was short enough to see the lipsticked laughing faces she painted on her knees. Her silk stockings were rolled at the knee, fastened with a flapper twist. Certain that all eyes were on her she began to rhythmically, rambunctiously dance the Charleston. She aban- doned herself to her musical feet. She danced a cappella. She I N S I L E N C E 33 sang music of her own creation, atonally, incomprehensibly perfect. oh, how she danced! She flung her arms and snapped her fingers. She rolled her back down, grabbed her knees and crisscrossed her arms over them again and again with startling speed. She lifted her head slightly and we could see her eyes giggle. My father tapped his foot and clapped his hands with rapture. My wonderful mother danced from child to child, lifting each one to her in turn until she had us all doing our own version of the Charleston. She alone was in rhythm. No one was frightened by her voice. Our spontaneous party was a success. "Come," she said, singing in voice, "I show you be sailors." My little friends understood her words. They moved with her in single file as she showed them how to hoist a sail up the "big, bigger mast in world." We heaved and grunted with our enormous work. We loved it. And I loved my mother. I knew that these children would not stare at us in horror again. Like the others. In the street, at the park, on the bus, in the bowels of the subways, people stared. They turned their ugly heads, stopped and openly stared at my family, their mouths gaping. Those open mouths, which talked, said words that made me suck in my breath. I didn't understand all their foreign English sounds. But I knew they were repulsed and fascinated. When my parents had their backs turned, I turned and stuck my tongue out at these men and women. I was adept at answering their wide-eyed stares, adept enough to put my thumb to my nose, fan out my fingers and present them with the vilest insult I knew. I never spoke. I pretended to be deaf. They glared at me, embarrassed, and turned their heads away. Most times my mother did not catch me. Her eyes were keen and when she caught me, she grabbed 34 Ruth Sidransky me by the offending hand and signed, "Shame on you, bad girl, not nice. Shame, shame." And my father said, "No more, not good girl. Stop it." I never told my parents what the strangers said. They told me again and again, "You do it yourself. You hear. We deaf). No one help us, you help us. Do yourself, must do yourself. Forget stupid hearing words." So I hearkened, heard the signs and remembered "Do it yourself." I N S I L E N C E 35 Two SCHOOL DAYS LITTLE GIRL, BE CAREFUL WHA T YOU SA Y Little girl, be careful what you say when you make talk with words, words- for words are made of syllables and syllables, child, are made of air- and air is so thin@ir is the breath of God- air is finer than fire or mist, finer than water or moonlight, finer than spider-webs in the mooti, finer than water-flowers in the morning: and words are strong, too, stronger than rocks or steel stronger than potatoes, corn, fish, cattle, and soft, too, soft as little pigeon eggs, soft as the music of hummingbird wings. So, little girl, when you speak greetings, when you tell jokes, make wishes or prayers, be careful, be careless, be careful, be what you wish to be. -Carl Sandburg, Wind Song All summer long my mother's hands lilted, preparing me for the first days of school. "Soon soon, September come, you go to big, wonderful school, be with hearing children, learn read, write, talk good English words." "Ben," she signed to my father, "Ruth start school next week. We buy new dress. Important she pretty." My crossed eyes wandered, scars left by measles, whoop- ping cough and scarlet fever in rapid succession. My mother's early efforts to straighten my dark eyes with dally exercise failed; they moved at their own discretion toward the bridge of my small straight nose. My hands reached up continually, nervously smoothing my silky black hair down the sides of my face, covering my ears. Then, I was ashamed of my ears, pushing them close to my head with my small speaking fingers, remembering all the years they were taped to my skull. And those tiny hearing ears had to be perfectly formed for Momma's deaf eyes. Each time my hair pulled away with the adhesive tape, I winced, and my mother signed, "Don't worry, make you beautiful ears. We fix stick-out ears." Her signs were gentle and I hurt. She could not hear my garbled speech. My language facsimiles of words she learned to say without imitated hers, the gift of sound. I understood all her words, the spoken ones and the signed ones. She never mastered the modulated pitch of normal speech, proclaiming her words 'just below the level of a shrill scream. Her sentences were signed, spoken in deaf shorthand, prepositions and conjunctions usually omitted. Strong verbs enunciated in the present tense; the words today, yesterday, and tomorrow added for absolute clarity. And it was all lyric. I spoke as my mother spoke. But my speech, in that I tangled the words I heard, was more confusing than hers, clearer than hers, all mixed up. I spoke shyly. Oral words strained from my throat. I flinched when people did not understand my words, words stirred with the sounds of silence. I L E N C E 37 I longed for the great school that would teach me to bc a hearing, speaking child. I remember my voice as a young child. Unsafe. I lurched I in unstated loss, 'n sound I did not hear properly. My speech, like my eyes, was cockeyed, cross-eyed, my tongue twisted I ollen profoundly by deaf sound. I had a voice that blathered sw 1 English sounds, a voice that crumpled consonants too difficult for the deaf to pronounce. I served as my mother's voice, shopping for fresh food. When I asked the green grocer for "one lib domadoes," h- Is d narrow face at eyes squinted, and I recognized the pinched th didn't understand. I pointed to the soft red mound piled high and my finger indicated the words of my mouth. He recog- nized my mother and me, and was usually quick to serve us, but when he was busy he shouted, "Girlie, speak right. I'm loaded with customers here. I have no time for you. Come back when I'm not so busy!" My throat lumped when my mother asked, "Why he not wait on me now, I must go finish shoppings. What take so long time?" I shrugged without speech, not a sign, not a verbal mouthing. "I come first before that fat women, tell man, it is my turn now. I remained silent. My mother, irritated, shouted at me with her hands, voice silent, "You stubborn girl, not good, not tell man what I say. Not fair." I opened my mouth in pretended speech but emitted no sound. I did not explain my own shame at being misunderstood. "Come"-she pulled my sleeve-"we shop other vege- table store." " Momma," I signed, "wait, it is our turn soon. He not understand all I say." 38 Ruth Sidransky "Why he not understand you, you hearing child, you speak hearing language." "Not perfect, Momma, sometimes I make mistake when I speak in out-loud words." Her eyes dropped to the ground. When she raised them they were blue soft, and she said what she said so often when thwarted by hearing cruelty. "Never mind, we wait, we wait until store empty and vegetable man have time to understand your hearing words." Encouraged by my mother's tenderness, I spoke up: "Mister, our turn now. We in hurry." He turned to my mother, patted my head and said, " Sorry, it's been so busy. Now, what do you want?" "One lib domadoes!" I enunciated each word carefully in my mother's shrill pitch. He hesitated, not quite understanding me. I caught his pause and pointed once again to the tomatoes. He took my hand and placed a tomato in it. "This is a tomato, and you want one pound, not one 'lb.' 'lb' is short for 'pound.' Tell your mother to pick her own tomatoes, but not to squeeze them." I signed his instructions to my mother and she recip- rocated with her radiant smile as she leaned over the tomato bin to make her selection. He led me into the store laden with fall produce and named everything we passed, correcting my pronunciation and pitch, repeating the word, waiting for me to repeat and repeat each vegetable he named until my repetition was correct. "Now ask your mother what else she wants." "Potatoes, three lbs, and parsley, good fresh green, no 'led brown nice lettuce, climbers, onion . . ." Her list went spot 1 on. And I said the words as I had just been taught, disregarding my mother's speech. "What's your name, girlie?" I N S I L E N C E 39 "I am Rathee, what is your name?" "I am Max, and the next time you come, wait for me, I will take care of you and your mother." " Thank you." "How old are you?" he asked, grinning at me. "i am five, next year I am six." Max asked, "Tell me your name again. 'Rathee' is a new name for me." I stopped, embarrassed. I had given him my mother's name for me. "Rathee" is pronounced like the word "rather" with a double "ee" rising at the end. It was my mother's call. My own I 'dentity, deaf said. name, my pr ivate I 1 "Max, my name is Ruth, my mother calls me Rathee; it is hard for me to say Ruth in the right way." The word rather, spoken in casual conversation, still elic- its a turn of my head, a response to the person who unwittingly almost calls me by my childhood name. It is a hearing misuse of my mother's voice. The name Ruth was not my name, not the name that connected me to my mother. It was a second name, a renaming into the hearing world, my passage to school. My mother's promises that "teacher will teach you talk perfect English" enchanted me. She assured me that school was the place where I would learn what she couldn't teach me, many new words, where I would learn "hearing" language. In time I did learn, but the vibrant language of her hands was not matched by oral speech-not ever, not then, not now. That summer, on Sunday mornings, deep in the bedroom of warm sleep, my father sat on my bed filling me with the wonder of language. "Watch me!" he said as he rose to his feet. "I show you hearing sounds." He raised his arms above his head, and with his hands 40 Ruth Sidransky plucking sound from the air, as a harpist plucks music from strings, he poured melody into his ears. And as he poured song into his head, he told me with a grand smile that school was where I would drink in what he couldn't give me, the sound that he could not hear. Again and again, he played with imagined sounds from the air with his hands. Each motion that touched sound for him was a gift to be opened on my first day of school. He signed, "School big present, has big blue ribbon, open ri 'bbon, learn to speak!" It was not to be. I was placed in a class for mentally retarded children. My mother and father's promise of joyous learning was broken. I was apparently a stupid girl, and I was so ashamed that I told no one about the boring days of repeti- tive teaching, about the vacant stares around me as the teacher pressed on. I shrank, never uttering a word, 'signing the others in their slowness. Each morning my mother hurried with excitement. My dress was still warm from the iron as she slid it over my head. She combed my hair and stroked my head with pleasure. "I go school myself, Momma. Big girl. I careful in " I signed these words with my lips tightly closed. street. 1 1 1 1 1 did not want her to see my classmates. I was determined to go to public school alone. I was not afraid of the streets, or of the roaring elevated train that passed over my head as I walked to school. I could do that alone. But I knew that I couldn't fool my mother. Something had gone awry at school. There was no magic. My mother was deaf, not stupid, not "deaf and dumb." just deaf. On that first Thursday afternoon after school, my mother, with her well-honed intuitive sense, asked me in the language of hands, "Why you not happy at school?" I N S I L E N C E 41 Instead of telling her how much I loved school, my hands 1 1 1 , blurted, "The children" 'n mY class are stupid. I learn nothing' just cut paper, p lay with crayon. Teacher speaks silly baby words, over, over again. Dull time at school." On Friday morning, my mother and I left for school together. My pleas to go alone were ignored. We walked slowly in Brooklyn's September light to the brick school- house. I clung to my mother's hand, the hand that promised me wondrous She would make it right. She would tell the teacher that I wasn't stupid; she would tell the teacher that I could sign when I was eleven months old. "Come Momma, " I said, "take you to meet teacher." "No," she said, "we see a principal." "But Momma," I protested, " we see teacher first." "No," she insisted, "I see only principal." Her hands were firm. We walked through the cafeteria that smelled of day's free lunch. When we got to the principal's office, I came prepared with a timid speech for the school clerk. My mother did not wait for me to translate her words. She took me by the band like any hearing mother. She opened the only closed door in the labyrinth of desks and secretaries scattered behind the oak counter, separating students and staff from the adminis- trative arm. Miss Nathanson, the principal, calmly lifted her round face to us. She had straight chestnut brown bangs, cut flapper style; horn-rimmed spectacles like mine, halfway down her nose; and the hint of a smile. Her voice asked, "Can I help you?" "Yes," I stammered. My mother was still. "What is your name, child?" Miss Nathanson's open smile ' touched me. I told her, "My name is Ruthie." 42 Ruth Sidransky My mother took charge. "Tell principal I must speak with her about your class." Miss Nathanson was quick. I did not have to explain to her as I had done so many times in the past with the "others." She grasped my mother's deafness. She reached for the pen and pad on her desk; she wanted direct contact with my mother through the written word. My mother shook her head vehemently. With all her concentration, she breathed four words very clearly. "Ruthie talk for me." Her hands were at her sides as she lowered herself to her knees and signed to me the words and thoughts that I was to interpret. I was proud of her spoken words, proud of her beautiful signs. "Tell her," she signed, "I not write notes. We talk to- gether with your voice, Ruthie. Not change mind." As the sentences flowed back and forth, from my mother's hands to my voice, from Miss Nathanson's voice to my five-year-old hands, I was my mother's interpreter, as I had been so many times before, but this time she was pleading for me. Miss Nathanson understood the words I spoke, the words that sounded like a deaf child speaking, and the words that sounded like a normal child. They were mixed together and her keen intuitive sense listened, separating deaf sound from hearing sound, never asking me to repeat a word. At the end of our three-way conversation, Miss Nathan- son said, "Ruthie, child, tell your mother to buy you a radio!" "A radio? We are too poor, I answered. She was adamant. "Tell your mother." "Momma," I signed, trembling, "principal say buy me a radio. I will learn talk better." These sensitive women looked at each other eye to eye, wordless. My mother shook her head with pleasure at this simple way to teach me to listen and to talk. So it was that a radio came into my life. It was a dome- I N S I L E N C E 43 shaped walnut box that had a dial. When I turned that dial, a miracle occurred. Normal adult voices came into my home, voices that were warm to the touch, voices that etched them- selves into my head. I connected to hearing voices. I heard the news and programs for children. I heard music for the first time. The music made me uncomfortable. I didn't feel that I should listen to music's magnificence. My parents would never hear it. I moved the dial. On Monday, my class was changed. The children were laughing and bright. And then without warning, my new teacher called my name and asked me to come to her desk. I obeyed, timorously. "This is Ruth Sidransky, everybody. She is new. And she knows something we do not!" My body faced the class. My eyes were cast to the floor. This nameless teacher bent her large teeth to me and said in a piercing voice, "You know another language. You know sign language. Class, little Ruth's parents are deaf and dumb." I felt the heat rise from my ankles to the backs of my knees, up my back, crawl into my skull until my ears were red with shame. I stood there motionless. She continued to chirp, "Now, show us how you sign, how you speak with your parents." I did not move. Teacher, without name, pressed on, "Tell the class, 'I am happy to meet you all.' " Exposed, my arms dangled at my sides, speechless. Her 'dent, she commanded once more, "Say something for voice stri the class." My fingers were limp. She put her hand on my shoulder, a demand to sign-speak. My arms lifted, my fingers fumbled incoherent letters. "That's a good girl. Now tell us, what did you say?" I whispered, "Good morning, all." I looked at this young woman and begged, "Sit down, please?" This teacher, I presume, spoke in ordered sentences all the rest of the morning. I only heard the hiss of syllables, meaning- less sounds, spitting from the open slit in her face. I turned my head from her mouth, turned my cars from her soundings and sucked on the pain-my lollipop. Her callousness held me captive. I had nowhere to hide from her open gaping, from her fascination with freaks. She was no different from the staring passerby from whom I could escape, at whom I could stick out my tongue, but I was powerless before this master of spoken language. Slowly, in the passage of days and weeks, I began to see this teacher, whose name has disappeared from memory, as a friend. I watched her mouth, heard her syllables and formed them into spools of meaning; sentences wound one on the other-language tunes, arias, andante, pianissimo. And after that, school was as promised by my father and by my mother, wonderful. I fingered the sound of sound into my hands. I spelled the letters of the word into myself, into my body. When spelling was too difficult for me to discern instantly, I made up a sign for the new word, signing and saying, saying and 'I the word was m'ne, an immutable possession. signing until 1 1 1 searched for an oral-speaking mother, any mother would do. Beguiled by the prospect, I flirted with the girls in my class, charming them, wheedling an invitation for milk and cookies "on the way home." I chose my friends on one pretext and one pretext alone. Would their mothers sit and talk, oral talk with me? Would they sit at the kitchen table with me and ask me about my school day? Would they respond to my vocal speech? Could I pretend for the moment that this woman was my mother, pretend 'just for a little? But I could not abandon my mother, Mary, and left abruptly each afternoon, running home, all the way home to Momma. Mothers with speaking mouths painted in different shades of scarlet slipped into my dreams . . . I lay in bed at night, waiting for someone to come, someone to hear my cry. "I am lonely, my tooth hurts. I am afraid. I have to go to the bathroom. Does no one hear me cry?" I had a nightmare, the monsters came and I screamed. And still, no one came. I left the warm wetness of my bed, left the security of my sheets and went with cold feet to my mother's bed. I touched her and woke her. Without a sound, she raised the covers and pulled me into her bed, surrounding me with her sleeping body. She held me but she didn't hear me. I didn't speak my urgent fear. She was asleep. And I slept with her, safe from the silent darkness. Silence struck me broadside. It was my secret catastrophe. I was the unmarked child of affliction. I was neither deaf nor blind nor lame. I was imprisoned within myself, within the shroud of silent days and nights, within the sense that no one responded to me. I found human response in fantasy, with word games and sound games; it was my refuge. I pigeonholed sound, forcing it into a square shape. It didn't fit. I rolled sound in my hand, rolled it into a ball as I rolled wadded gum that had lost its sweetness. I rubbed my hands together as I rolled clay, shaping sound into a cylinder. It was unshapable, amorphous. it eluded me. Sound was an illusion. It had no substance. I had a voicebox that could accurately speak sounds that I heard. But there were stumbling blocks. I looked at objects, and when I couldn't name them, I chose creation. I structured my own words. I called crunched paper "gribble balls." Mashed potatoes were "shalamus potatoes," a washcloth was a " (my vocal translation of wipe). My vocabulary was studded with words that suited me. I was a child inventing a child's language, cutting paper dolls out of ten-cent paper doll books, giving names, speaking words that were mine alone. I shared them with no one after my futile attempts to teach my hearing friends the new words. 46 Ruth Sidransky They looked away from the strange combination of sounds. I collided with sound; I whispered to its thunder and asked, "Why do you crash from the sky?" "Bertuple!" was God's answer. It was a serious word, and no one understood it but me. I returned to my paper dolls, looking for my childhood; I gave my imaginary companions names that rang with mys- tery. I created "Perchanane" for the paper lady of the Civil War era, delicate and sweet in her white hooped skirt. "Bredadamo" was the handsome male, in soldier blue, off to fight for the Union army. This was my language, mine. It had its own hum, its own resonance. I had a blue dress I treasured as a child. I did not know 'specific blueness, so I named 't "delicious" blue. When my its 1 1 first-grade teacher said, "Your delphinium-blue dress is lovely," I thought, "Delphinium!" It was a long word, a beautiful word, and so easy to say. I was, as always, ashamed to ask about the word. I wanted to know all about the word, where it came from, who made it up, why it was so lyrical. During recess, when the others went out in the springtime to play, I searched the dictionary and discovered that it was the name of a long, slender flower that grew every year from the same seed, a perennial. There was no picture in the dictionary; frustrated, I imagined an enormous blue daisy. I became more competent as time went on, able to find the meaning of every word I heard and sought. I practiced the words, petted them, cherished them. Words and sounds lulled me to sleep. My nights were radio nights-the radio my mother bought for me. I awakened in the mornings with the radio voices that I had not turned off enticing me to the new day, boring language into my skull as I slept. I remained in bed, deciphering the words, imprinting I N S I L E N C E 47 them 'into my memory. Many had n o meaning, but, oh, the sounds ... "Radio very warm, you forget to turn off again?" my mother asked as she gently pulled the cover, from my sleep. "Yes I leave on all night, I forget turn off." "Electric bills cost much money. Not forget turn off tonight, okay?" I had not forgotten, but how could I turn off the sound? Before I finished the second grade, we moved from the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn to the East Bronx, to a gray tenement facing the Simpson Street police station. My mother, determined to live apart from my father's siblings and parents, wanted her own life away from 'judgmental eyes. So she exchanged an apartment with windows to the street for three small dark rooms that faced the brick alley adjoining yet another gray-faced tenement. Months later, unable to bear the sunless days, she said to my father, "Ben, I look for other rooms. I cannot see life in a street. Too lonesome. We have no light from the day." He knew the meaning of blue daylight. He understood that light bad its own intelligence. He answered with approval: "You look Mary, but cannot afford lots money for rent." On weekend mornings, instead of taking me and my brother Freddie to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to feast our eyes on Canaletto's light-filled canvases, we walked the streets of the Bronx in search of our own light. I was caught up in my mothers excitement. "This look good neighborhood. You speak to super, Ruthie, see if he has empty rooms." I approached superintend- ent after superintendent without success. My mother remained undaunted. One summer Saturday morning, my mother and father, my brother and I boarded the Interval Avenue streetcar. "We go that way," my mother asserted, " get off on nice wide street. Maybe we find street with trees and green grass. 48 Ruth Sidransky We found Dawson Street. it was a wide street that curved up a steep hill. The modem red-brick building at 891 Dawson Street fanned out over a courtyard flanked with dusty green privet shrubs. All the apartments faced the courtyard or the street. There was one vacant apartment available with three sun-filled rooms. "Fine," my mother said. "Tell super we take rooms." "Thirty-nine dollars a month. Too much money," my father balked. We moved into the apartment on the first day of the new month. My mother and father gave me and my brother the bedroom. They slept in the living room on a cot. My father made the mattress for the cot with his own hands. He sewed each cloth-covered button into the mattress with his curved needle. I watched him do this, needle in, needle out, until it was done. But the mattress, the metal cot, and the buttons soon became a source of disgust. The metal coils that supported the cot's frame were infested with bedbugs. In the evenings before we went to sleep my father removed the bedding and, with a lighted candle in his square hand, he burned the bedbugs from every crevice he could reach. We watched him as he caught them in his bare hands and squashed them. The acid smell was sharp. No one spoke during this ritual. But the kitchen was the first kitchen I ever saw that had sunbeams on the table. I was eight years old that summer and longed for school to begin again. My English was fluent. I spoke like other children, but I was not like them. I developed other sensitivi- ties. I listened to the inner voices of people, aware of their unspoken words. I could hear what I could see. And I saw. I saw an eyelid lower fractionally. I saw the unseen tremor of a lie within a cheek. I saw a lip quiver when no one else did. I heard and understood the pause, the search for the right word that would mask the truth. I knew people. But they did not know me; I did not reveal myself. My mother reminded- me often, with a clap of her hands, that the essence of life was to "open eyes wide and to see all, to see language speak," as she laced the sign for language through her fingers. She taught me to pay attention to life, to be a mystic. Summer ended in September, and I was admitted to Miss Chanin's third-grade class for gifted children. She was an old lady with faded yellow, tightly curled hair that dropped clumps of scaly dandruff on her navy crepe dress. Her worn black shoes were tightly laced on her large feet. Although she was slim and short, she waddled. But I loved her and her deep voice that rolled words distinctly from her bright red rouged mouth. At the end of each schoolday I waited eagerly for the fairy tales with the happy endings that she read aloud to us. I wanted a book of my own to read, a book I could take to my bed and read until my eyes closed with sleep. I longed to know more about Hiawatha and his old grandmother Nokomis, who lived together in a wigwam on the shores of the Gitchee Gumee. I read only the story of Hiawatha's con- quest of the wicked magician who brought suffering to the tribe. I asked Miss Chanin if there were any more books about Hiawatha. She answered, "Yes, there are more books in the library." "What," I asked, "is a library?" Patiently she explained that I could Join a library where there were hundreds of books, perhaps thousands, and that I could borrow a book whenever I wanted to read. I sat at my gouged wooden desk, stunned, until I remem- bered that we were poor and asked, "How much does it cost?" "It is a free public library. Your mother can take you. Stop at my desk after school, and I will give you the address." I clutched the paper with the scribbled address all the way 50 Ruth Sidransky home from P.S. 39. 1 stopped for nothing and talked to no one. I walked home hoping that my mother would take me to the library that afternoon. I ran up three flights of stairs. I read our apartment number, 3H, on the door, inserted my key and opened the door. I didn't ring the bell, nor did I knock. My mother greeted me only when she saw me. She put down her knitting needles, put out her arms, and smiled h r beautiful I smile sm c fu I . She spoke to me with her voice. She was not ashamed of her singsong voice in my presence. ")What have you in hand7" "Look, Momma, look I have library paper. We go now, not far." I spoke and signed simultaneously. I wanted to be very sure she understood my great excitement. Sh(- shook her head. "Not today, we go Saturday. No time today." "You know what library is Momma?" I demanded. "Yes," she surprised me, I know." "Why not we go before?" I asked. "No time. We go Saturday when Daddy Ben no work. promise you." My mother's promises were golden, but it was only Wednesday. I had to wait three more days, three more days and nights. I dreamed of touching paper with words that formed sentences. My hands caressed pages in the air, pages that were smooth and those that were textured with slivers of wood embedded in the print, and pages that were thick and creamy. Best of all, there were pages that had words that would Join me to other people's thoughts. I could read anything. I read hands and words with complete ease. Sign language is spoken with symbols for most words. But many words that I signed to my parents had no specific sign. These words were spelled out, letter by letter, in the manual alphabet of the deaf. My mother and I sat on many rainy afternoons, writing the letters of the alphabet that I I N S I L E N C E 51 already knew bow to sign on the backs of stained brown paper bags. We practiced writing capital letters, lowercase letters and I I letters in script. My association with the signed letter of the alphabet and the written letter was immediate. For me, reading hands and reading the printed word were the same process. It was all language that connected me to the human mind. At first light on Saturday morning, I crept into my parents' small bed and shook my mother awake. "What is wrong?" she asked. "You not feel well?" "Saturday morning now, you promise take me to library! " She laughed with delight at my anticipation. "Too early, go back to sleep. Open later, we go at ten o'clock." I washed and dressed myself. I carefully pulled my red dotted Swiss dress over my head. I buckled my black patent leather shoes. And I sat on my bed waiting for the hours to Pass. We walked together, my mother and 1, past the open fields enclosed with barbed wire, away from Dawson Street, past Kelly Street and Beck Street filled with Saturday-morning shoppers whom I ignored. I was elated. I was going to the library and I would bring home a book. When we arrived at the imposing site, I ran up the pitted concrete steps into the librarian's feet. "We're not open yet, just a moment. I could not wait. I blurted, ", want a book, a book I can take home." This tight-bunned librarian relaxed her face as she peered down over her glasses at me. She invited us in to see her -magnificent library before the scheduled opening hour. After she issued me a temporary card, which I clutched as a passport to life, she directed me to the children's section. On my knees, I moved up and down the two-tiered rows of shelves not quite knowing where to put my hands. I stroked the thick hardcover 52 Ruth Sidransky bindings, sensing the gold letters that named each book. I ran my hands over the odd-shaped books, some thick, others slim, all filled with treasure. I reached for a thin horizontal book and sat down flat on the floor. The title page read, The Coconut Man. I flipped the pages quickly. There was no color to distract me from the continuing flow of big black words printed in a single line under each drawing. It was a simple story. A lonely little boy wanted to make a man to be his friend. He constructed a large rag body, but his man had no head. So the boy scoured the beach on his tropical island and found a coconut that had been washed ashore. He perched it on his man. The coconut man had no eyes, no ears, no mouth, no nose, but he could feel with his well-made hands. He could sign with his hands. His signs made him human. He left the boy, his creator, and went in search of someone who could carve out the rest of his senses. I wanted to finish this book at home, in secret. Holding the book tightly under my arm, I approached the librarian with a timorous question: "May I take this book home?" "Yes, and you may keep it for two weeks." I read the book again and again, before lunch and after lunch. As my brother napped, I read the book to my mother, signing each word for her. When he awakened, I asked my mother to take me back to the library to get another book. My mother, with good humor, agreed. We set out again. This time Fred came with us. The same librarian was there when I returned the book. With her yellow pencil fitted with a dated rubber stamp, she checked in my first borrowed book. "I want another book please." "I am sorry, but you cannot have another. You may not take out books, return them, and take out another on the same day with a temporary card. You will have your permanent card next week." My eyes pleaded with her. She shook her head. "Rules are rules." Not wanting her to see my tears, I turned and rushed down the steps to my mother. "Don't worry," my mother said, "I buy you a funny comic book." On Monday morning I walked sadly into Miss Chanin's classroom. Thirty eager voices didn't ease the library loss. I sat down at the back of the room. "Ruth," Miss Chanin called, "that is not your seat. You belong in the front of the room. You wear glasses and need to sit where you can see the blackboard." I returned to my seat and sat quietly all morning. As my class filed out for lunch in an orderly line, Miss Chanin stopped me and asked , "would you like to have your lunch with me? I need a monitor to help me sort out some books." I looked at her gratefully. We sat together in the class- room filled with the empty wooden seats and desks. I faced my beloved teacher and, glowing with conversation, ate my egg salad sandwich. At home we ate in silence. Our hands could not talk and eat at the same time. When I finished my meal, I crumpled the red milk carton into my paper bag with the crusts of bread I loathed, and dropped the mess into the waste basket under the teacher's desk. "I am ready to help you now, Miss Chanin." She opened the locked closet door in the back of the room. The books were piled in complete disarray. Some fell out of the closet onto the floor. She instructed me. "We have to separate the books that are torn and that have pages missing from those that can still be used. You will put the books in good condition on the desks and the others you will leave on the floor." I worked methodically, touching each book I held, wish- ing that it were mine. I found the book from which Miss 54 Ruth Sidransky Chanin read us my favorite fairy tales. In it was the story of the singing maid Romaine, who enchanted the king of the realm with her lyrical voice. This kindly ruler invited Ro- maine to come to the palace to sing. Although she missed her poor old aunt and her thatched cottage, she was filled with joy. The raven-haired child sang at the palace every day. But after a month she grew listless because she wanted to be just like the king's fair daughter, Altheda. One day her fairy godmother appeared and granted her wish. Romaine lifted her voice in song, so great was her happiness. She couldn't sing. Horrible sounds came from her throat. After three days, Romaine sum- moned her fairy godmother with a bell and pleaded to be herself again. The dainty fairy said, "The princess cannot sing, Ro- maine, and if you wish to be like her, you will not sing." "Ruth!" Miss Chanin said sharply. "This is no time to read." I looked up at her from the floor, still holding the torn book in my hand. "I have to go to the office for a moment. You keep working until I get back." When she walked out of the room, I took the tattered text to my desk and slid the book into my blue and green plaid canvas bag. I wanted that book to be mine. All afternoon I sat nervously in my seat, hoping that she would not discover the missing book. At three o'clock I walked, white with fear, from the classroom. No one followed me home. I put the stolen book in my drawer and touched it lovingly. It had no front cover. It had no title page. That night, in bed, I took out the book and arranged the pages in order. I tied the loose pages together with white string. Each night for weeks I read the words on 'I I memorized the entire book. every page until I have the book, still, hidden in a drawer. I N S I L E N C E 55 - 'i -1 1 1 Part Two THE WORLD OF MY PARENTS n Th ree SCHOOL FOR BENNY AND MARY Thou shalt not curse the deaf, nor put a stumbling block before the blind. -Leviticus 19:14 "You like school now?" my father asked. "Yes, I love school now. You love school when you were a little boy?" my hands asked. i No, I not like school, not learn enough. I not always deaf, my father put me in school, I was afraid." "You not always deaf? I not know. How you be- come deaf?" "I was sick, long time, better you ask Grandma, she tell you story. She tell you I was blind too." I pressed my father to tell me what happened. He was 'lent for a moment and then repeated with h's hands, "Walt si 1 1 'I Grandmother visits here, next time. She explain you all." unti I I When my Grandma Lizzie came to our apartment I rushed to her, demanding an answer to my father's riddle. She sat me on the sofa and I touched her hands, expecting her to sign, but she couldn't. She never learned her son's language. I looked into her face and her deep brown eyes clouded. She said two words: "Spinal meningitis." "What is that?" "Your daddy is the oldest of my seven children. When he was two years old, just a little boy, he was very, very sick. He had a fever that went up and up, he was so hot. The doctor came and no one believed he would live. But I prayed and prayed, I washed your father with cold water and his fever came down. I talked to him and then I saw he could not see me. He was blind. I called the doctor, I went to his house and knocked on his door, I told him to come and see my only little child. He came home with me and told me what I already knew, your Daddy Benny was blind and he would always be blind. "I did not believe him. Every Friday night I lit the Sabbath candles near his small bed. He was still weak, his eyes did not move, they did not see the light. On the sixth week, the sixth Friday, I lighted the candles once more near his bed and he moved, his eyes moved; they followed the light. I moved my hand across his eyes and those black eyes followed my hand. I ran into the street crying, 'My baby can see, he can 'The neighbors opened their windows; they thought I was see. crazy. I did not know that he was deaf." My father watched my eyes as my grandmother re- called the days of my father's illness in 1905. He took my hand and asked, "You understand now, my story? How I am to be deaf?" "Yes, I understand." 60 Ruth Sidransky "i was not all deaf, but sound grow less and less. I not remember all, but I remember school, first day." My father and I each entered school with a grave handi- cap. He had no language. I had some. I went to school with hope; he was deposited there like a dumb animal, taken from his mother's side by his father, with whom he barely com- and left in a strange place. There were no promises communicated, for him as there were for me. As my father approached school age his hearing dimin- ished until there was none, not even the memory of sound. He remembers turning his head in response to a loud sound but he was never able to distinguish conversation. Any speech that he had acquired as a two-year-old was gone. on the first day of school in September 1909, my grand- father Morris Sidransky took his deaf son to a big, dark brown brick building on East 23rd Street in Manhattan. It was P.S. 47, a school for the "hard of hearing." My father did not know it was a school, did not recognize the principal's office. He remembers sitting in a hard straight-backed wooden chair, watching his father and the principal, Miss Kearns, speak. A teacher came into the room as they spoke and led my father, a small deaf boy, into a classroom full of children who stared directly at him. He sat where the teacher put him and walled in terror. "I cried all the day long. I am frightened and scream, 'Where is father?' "Did you know the words?" I asked my father. "No, I was dumb. I only scream loud noise from my throat with tears until my father came to get Me, to bring me to my home once again." "Did you know any words when you were in school?" "No, I only know signs my mother make for me, we have private language." He smiled as he signed this sentence hinting at our own private language. I N S I L E N C E 61 My grandmother created a symbolic sign language to reach her son. She flapped her arms like a flying bird to describe a chicken; she tore an imaginary hunk of meat across her mouth to tell him they were having meat for dinner; she closed her eyes and rested her face on her hands to tell him it was time to sleep; she braided bread in the air to ask him if he wanted a slice. The signs were rudimentary, common to those who do not share a language. And there were not many of them. Language existed only between mother and child. His father rarely attempted to invent a sign to reach his son. "What happened when your father came for you?" I asked. "My father did not talk to me until the next day. He made the sign for writing in his hand and took me back to school. Little by little I learned to say the alphabet and read and write some. But I was stupid. The teachers hit us hard with a ruler if we try to talk with our hands." The teachers' moving mouths mimicked the words of normal people. The young children who had great hearing loss looked at those mouths and generally understood but a few words. Lip reading is an art, and is not given to all the deaf. Lip talking can be taught and the deaf child can learn to mime the mouth to form a letter of the alphabet, a word or a sentence. But lip reading demands concentration and great leaps of the imagination to grasp not only the words but the meaning and intonation of words unheard by the deaf child. Staring hard, with all one's might, as a child does, does not create either conversation or human contact with all the color of language. Instead it creates frustration, and at times it in- duces rage that can last a lifetime. It is natural for a person who cannot hear to tap another on the shoulder or catch his eye when he wants to share a word or a thought. It is natural for a deaf child to use his face and 62 Ruth Sidransky hands to express himself. Language without face is flat and toneless. The spontaneous use of the body, the hands and face was rigorously routed from my father's life by incessantly striking hands that would speak with a long wooden ruler. For many of the children, school was a hateful, tedious place where they stared at the mouths of their teachers Teaming to name life uncertain of the verbal connection. There were many failures along the way: language was massively misun- derstood. Children were denied the most humanizing aspect of life: they were unable to completely communicate with other humans. In desperation they secretly created signs and spoke to one another in hidden corners. Some of the older students had access to deaf friends who went to other schools where sign language was permitted, and they learned their own language in spite of the harsh dictates of early-twentieth-century educa- tors who insisted on oral speech in the classroom. Slowly the process of learning language began for my father. First he was taught the letters of the alphabet. Enuncia- tion was difficult. My father told me, "i remember the first letters and how I learned to say it. The teacher took a piece of paper and made me to blow air on it. She closed her lips together and open her mouth to make the paper move. When the paper moved away from her mouth I was happy. I said the letter p. I know it was right for teacher smile at me." He signed and spoke, directing his words at his teacher now long gone. The letters of the alphabet were learned one at a time in this painstaking fashion. Deaf children learned to vocalize sound by touch. This was paradoxically permitted. An index finger was placed on the nose, pressing down on one nostril to teach the letter n. Mouths were opened and the curvature of the teacher's mouth was imitated to create vowel sounds. I N S I L E N C E 63 Little hands were placed on young throats to feel the sound emanating from the voicebox. The door to language was opened and then finally shut. How simple it would have been to teach the children the signed manual letters of the alphabet; to grant the sense of touch. The spoken letter and the printed letter would have been indelibly reinforced by adding one more learning tool, the tool of hands. This was denied. My father was bitter about this. He was nearly eighty when he signed, "My teacher taught me to name a ball, to name a flower, but she did not teach me what kind of flower was in her hand. I learned that later, much later. They gave to us children small wooden sticks of different colors, and we learned to say the names of colors. But all words were separate. Sentences did not bring the words together for thinking." His anger continued. "The teacher put my hand under running water to teach me to say water, to know what water is. When I was used to the teacher's mouth and her way, they changed my teacher. Every six months I had a new teacher. I was not stupid, but I was left back two times." "Why?" I asked. "i did not learn enough to say things to people. I did not always understand my teacher. I only learned to talk in the world." My father looked at my questioning eyes sadly. He went on. "When I was twelve years Old, I met deaf boys and girls from Fanwood School. In that school, both teachers and pupils use sign language. I learned to say boat and train. I learned to talk through them. It was late, I was a big boy to 'just learn to talk back and forth with people." My father was a bright child, but his intelligence was locked away. Without normal speech at the age when children 64 Ruth Sidransky F begin to play with syllables and sounds emanating from their vocal cords, tongues and lips, my father was separated from his own wit. His other senses did become more acute with time. But he never in his lifetime recovered from early verbal ne- glect compounded by a school system that tried to create an incomplete language system in imitation of normal human sound for deaf children. My father saw my anger. He reached across the sofa to touch me. "Don't worry, " he said, "I improve my mind every day. I learn new words and you Ruth are my teacher." I hugged him. He continued. "One thing I will tell you. My father, your grandfather was a stupid man. If he sense had, he would hire for me when I was five years old a private teacher to speak perfect English with my hands. It is too late now." He shrugged his own hands into what might have been. I looked at him as he raised his hands for one more thought: "You and your brother both graduate from college. This is good for me. You are my dictionary to help me with English language." When he said, "I try my life, all my life, to understand hearing people. It is hard." He banged the sign for the word hard on his tightly clenched left fist. Language came into his life too late. He never read a book page by page, nor did my mother. The continuing flowing language, line after line, paragraph after paragraph, chapter after chapter is too difficult to sustain. Language denied in childhood is impossible to resurrect in adulthood. School for my mother was a travesty. Her memories have little to do with language; they are locked in her attempts to leave school, to escape from the disciplined drudgery of "open mouth...... close mouth...... feel throat," "pick up tongue," a I N S I L E N C E 65 meaningless drone without th.e clarity of hands to reinforce or to enrich learning. So great was the stress on oral speech that educators did not educate, did not flatter the fluency that early speech provides for thinking, for inclusion in the world of the written word, in life's literature. It was in retrospect absurd, a waste of fine young minds denied their very own language with the slap of a yardstick by a well-trained oralist teacher. Most of the children at the Lexington School for the Deaf, in New York, were congenitally deaf. They would never, like my mother, experience sound. My mother permanently abandoned language growth and used only the few hundred words she learned at school. New words were put aside. Her language was in her face. She face talked. She body talked. She hand talked. I discerned instantly what each pressure of her hand meant on my arm when she called me by touch. I knew whether she was dis- pleased or happy or 'just wanted to ask me a question. But her curiosity about language was forever stilled. "I hate school!" My mother flicked her hands in vehe- ment memory. We were at the kitchen table again, watching the Octo- ber rain spatter the yellow-curtained window. A stew was bubbling on the gas stove. She stirred the stew and sat down again to her favorite pastime, storytelling. I sat without mov- ing, wondering which story I would hear this time. "I was mischievous little girl and hate to be away from home. Look at my words and I tell you all." The stories always began with a loving description of her parents. My grandfather Abraham Bromberg and grandmother Fanny lived near the East River on Brooklyn's bulging shore- line. They crossed the Atlantic Ocean from London, England, in the summer of 1908 on the S.S. Philadelphia. On its return voyage to Europe, the Philadelphia sank. Their trek to Amer- 66 Ruth Sidransky ica began three years earlier, when my grandfather fled con- scription into the Russian army. "Jews," he said, "do not fight for the Russians against the Japanese." The young couple settled in London, where Nathan, my mother's oldest brother, and my mother were born. They lived in the East End ghetto that housed as many as ten people to a room. My pious, handsome redheaded grandfather was a skilled cabinetmaker who turned his deft hands to the con- struction(-tion of wooden steamer trunks for those who had enough money to emigrate to America. With his master hands he built a synagogue in London's Whitechapel district. After three years he accumulated enough money to book passage to New York. My infant mother was swaddled in a large fruit basket. Three-year-old Nathan walked onto the ship's gangplank holding his mother's hand. They made the difficult voyage and at Ellis Island each family was inspected and sent on into the waiting city. "Lucky for me I was so small a baby. I looked fine. If government man know I am deaf, I would be in Europe today. Not let me in U.S. of America." My mother giggled at the thought. Her first three years are gone from memory. Perhaps there is no memory without language. Yet her sharpest memory relates to the word kindness. Her mother and father were kind to their first deaf child. They had no experience with deafness; no one in either of their families was deaf. Instinctively they found a way to reach their daughter. My mother was convinced that her own mother barely spoke English, that her mother carried only the Yiddish lan- guage of the shtetl with her to America. How then did they understand one another? As I watched my mother's stories over the years, I looked for a clue in her hands. Within the hands I N S I L E N C E 67 I found the answer. They communicated by touch. It was incessant and tender; it was the same sense of warm touch that was given me as a child. " my mother," said my own mother to me, " was a busy woman. She cut and sewed shirts for all the sons, she cooked everything herself, with seven children she had no time to care for herself. She never comb her hair in the morning, 'just roll it up and put pins in it on top of her head. So I take a comb to her kitchen and make her to sit down. I do this every day for her." My mother stopped, stroked my hair, and said, "You have same hair as my mother-her hair was shiny black like silk threads. I comb her long hair and then I make a bun neatly on her head. She was beautiful woman with big, big blue eyes." Years later, my mother's brother Sam told me that my grandmother spoke English very well. I never told my mother. For she believed in the mystery and magic of the unique language created by a mother who spoke no English and a child who did not speak at all. My maternal grandparents had seven children who sur- vived infancy, four sons and three daughters. They were Na- than, my mother Miriam, Sam, Anna, jack, Louis, and Rose. Anna died of diphtheria when she was two years old. She could hear. My mother, jack, and Rose were born deaf. My mother's greatest refuge was within the walls of her own home, where she was understood and loved. When she was separated from her family, she began a lifelong career of hiding. After her first week's exposure at boarding school, she hid in closets and under beds on Monday mornings until her father found her crouched into a ball, trembling. He lifted her gently from her hiding place and took her to school. Even as an old woman, she was reluctant to face a new group of 68 Ruth Sidransky people, and would put one hand over her nose and with the other, say, "I will go hide myself in a corner." In time she became accustomed to school, but did every- thing to avoid going, including playing hooky when she was a teenager. Her education was absurd. Absurd is a word derived from Latin and it means "deaf, dulled." And the education was dull. Language and trades were taught. Where was the food for these souls, for these bright young minds? In the years prior to World War 1, the education my parents received was considered advanced. In retrospect, it seems primitive. Yet it was not as barbaric as the nineteenth- century practice of institutionalizing deaf children in insane asylums. Great strides have been made in educating soundless children but these came too late for Mary and Ben. So their memories are memories of indignation, memo- ries that sear the soul with frustration. When my mother was six years old, a ringworm epi- demic broke out at the school, and her scalp was infected. The little girls were lined up and taken to Bellevue Hospital. "There," my mother said, " we each waited our turn to see the doctor. I was afraid. When my turn came, I kick and scream, but the nurse pulled me into a room and strapped me to a table. Then I remember nothing." She looked at me and softly stroked the back of her scalp. "They burned away the worms." She believed that there were worms burrowed beneath the skin. Only once did she show me her gouged scalp. The scar reached from 'just below the crown of her head to the nape of her neck. It was the size of a woman's palm. The doctors permanently mutilated her. Her hair was long and she covered her baldness with her remaining hair, clutching it to her head with a round tortoiseshell comb. I N S I L E N C E 69 "Now you understand why I hate school, they spoil my hair for life." There was resignation in her anger. "I always want to run away from school. And if not run away, I like to play, be devil girl. One night when I was asleep with all the nine-year-old girls in my class, one classmate woke us all up. She tapped us on a shoulder, one by one. We woke up still ' sleepy." The girls, still warm in their narrow beds, rubbed their eyes awake. Standing in front of them was their counselor, the woman in charge of their dally lives away from the classroom. Her sleeping quarters adjoined the girls' dormitory. She was furious with them. As they cowered before her rage, she demanded to know which one of them had entered her room and eaten all the cookies on her nightstand. No one would tell. "All right," she said, "if you will not tell me the name of the thief, I will punish you all." When the counselor was away, my mother had led the girls into her room to see what they could find. They had all had a hand in ripping up the cookie box, and in their exuber- ance had left the evidence of their crime, crumbs and torn wrappings, on her bed. "I will give you all one more chance to tell me who stole the cookies! " Silence. "You are punished. All of you. You are not allowed to dress tomorrow or to go to class. You will remain in your beds for the entire day! " In the morning the girls reveled in their freedom. They played and played in their pajamas, Jumping from bed to bed, 'pillows, laughing, signing there thoughts. "We talk all tossing pi 1 1 1 1 day with hands, no one slap us on hand, no one punish us. Best schoolday." My mother's hands opened wide as she signed these words. 70 Ruth Sidransky .- I asked my mother when she was seventy-four years old if she remembered the first word she ever learned to vocalize. "Yes," she signed with a deep smile. "My father came to school every Friday to take me home for a weekend. I was so happy to see him, I hate school and I hate to sleep in big dormitory with all the other deaf girls. He took me to the corner at Lexington Avenue and 67th Street, and we walked to 68th Street to take a subway, but we did not go to my home first. He took me to Coney Island to visit his cousin who had a big cafeteria restaurant on Surf Avenue. On trip, he signed to me and I signed to him with words that we made at home. I understand him, he understand me. Not many words, few." "Momma," I said, "tell me about your first word, not a subway ride." "Be patient, " she admonished, "i must tell you all story." "My father and his cousin were glad to see each other. They talked lots. I was little girl five years old and I want to go home. I was standing near all the forks and spoons made of tin in big baskets. I was not comfortable. I want to go home so I pull my father's pants leg. He did not turn around. I did not want to use my voice loudly. I know my voice is not normal. I pulled him again by his pants. He still did not turn around. I was angry." She paused, savoring the moment, with her hands ajar on her lap. put my hand in basket and took out a fork and a spoon. I went between my father and his cousin's legs. My father looked down to me. I held the fork up to his face and said with my mouth and with my voice the word fork. The two men stared it me. I held up the spoon in other hand and said word spoon. My father picked me up in his arms and cried. He carried me around the whole restaurant. He said many words that I could see but could not hear." I N S I L E N C E 71 My mother stopped her tale and asked me if I remem- bered my first word. I did not. She continued, "On the way home it was a long subway ride. My father Abraham touched many things and said many words with his mouth. I said them too. He was proud on me. Every weekend and every holiday I learn words at home. I learned words in school but home words were best. I learned table and chair, chicken, milk, bread, butter, sister, brother, mother, father, love, kiss, sad, happy, cry, laugh. My father was good teacher, he taught me to say better and I taught him to sign better." She put her hands down and glistened with her language triumph. I got up from my chair and my mother took my hand motioning me to sit down. "Wait, now I tell you your first word." "You were eleven months old in a crib bed when you say your first words to me. You told me someone was ringing a doorbell!" Momma," I challenged, "babies don't say whole sen- tences. "You did. Your left hand was closed and your thumb was out. You push the air with your thumb over and over again. You look at me strong, shake your head and push the air some more. Your smart eyes so big and black look at me. I went to the door and the laundry man was there. I forget to leave the door open for him on Monday morning like always." She smiled at me as she often did and said, "You speak at eleven months." I did not speak, I signed. My own memory focused as Momma talked. I was nine years old, flushed with the pleasure of being back in school 72 Ruth Sidransky "after the long summer. It was Friday and my classmates and I were dressed for the morning assembly, the girls in white starched middy blouses and red scarves, the boys in white shirts and ties. The entire community of children and teachers sang "The Star-Spangled Banner." We remained at stiff attention as the color guard moved down the auditorium to the stage, carrying the American flag. My attention was rapt. Each time I heard the chorus of children singing I shuddered with the musical power of sound. When the assembly period was over we returned to our room for the tests we took every Friday morning. I was a quick student and remembered my work in sharp detail. The classroom was quiet, as nine-year-old minds strug- gled with arithmetic problems. Some children squinted to remember, others curled the tips of their tongues into the corners of their mouths, some chewed the erasers off the tops of their pencils. I gazed directly ahead of me in a visionary state, seeing the answer. At times, I signed to myself to rein- force my memory. I heard my teacher's voice demand, "Ruth Sidransky!" I focused my vision and saw her nostrils quiver. "Yes," I answered, frightened. "Come up here and bring your paper with you!" I did as I was told. I frowned as I lay my paper on her desk. She took a thick red pencil and slashed my work with a cross, wrote a large zero across the top and defaced my good work with another obscenity as she scrawled the word CHEATING in large letters across the entire page. I protested and she stopped me. "I saw you signaling someone with your hands. I don't wish to hear another word. You are a cheat. Sit down!" My eyes welled with tears and I sat down, humiliated, at my desk. All the others were writing; I had no work to do. I N S I L E N C E 73 I dropped my head, but I didn't cry at the mockery. The morning passed into eternity, and I decided to tell my teacher about my parents, something I was reluctant to do. I stiffened at eyes of pity. The lunch bell rang. As we left the room, I paused at the desk and said with great courtesy, "Miss Luloff, may I speak to you?" She was indignant. "So you have come to apologize." "No," I said quietly, "I've come to tell you that my parents are deaf, that we speak sign language at home, that I think with my hands sometimes. And I did not cheat." I did not wait for her answer. I left with all the dignity my young body could gather into itself. As the years passed, my mother, now in the seventh grade, found ways to play hooky from school. Her infatuation with the movies and Rudolph Valentino was her undoing. The exaggerated emotive quality of the silent screen flooded her imagination. She related to the broad pantomime. The dia- logue that flashed on the screen in simple sentences made the story line as clear to her as to the rest of the audience. She did not need me to sit beside her in the movies on Saturday afternoons as I did throughout my girlhood, inter- preting the role of each character. When she went to the movies without me, she often asked me to see the movie and explain it to her. At times she told me the plot as she under- stood it, and when I saw the movie, her fantasy about the screen images bore no relation to the script. Frustrated when I told her the correct story line, she often signed, "I like my story better." She was an excellent film critic. If a film wasn't cine- matic, if it had no motion, she said to me in warning, "This 74 Ruth Sidransky is not good movie. it belongs to a theater where actress and actor talk to each other on a stage, not on moving screen." In 1921, when she was thirteen, a new Valentino film opened in her neighborhood. By this time she was able to take the subway to school by herself. On Monday mornings she took her younger deaf brother, jack, with her to school. But on this day she decided to play hooky and included jack in her plans. She did not dare ask her mother for the nickel that was the price of admission at the local movie house. Instead, she marched to the local butcher at the corner and asked for a job. There was a sign in the window that read, HELP WANTED, EXPERIENCED CHICKEN PLUCKER. My mother entered the kosher shop with purpose. The counter was laden with freshly killed chickens, chickens with brown feathers, with black feathers, with speckled white feathers. Each chicken's throat had been slit and dried blood caked the feath- ers. The chicken heads lay limp with half-open eyes. The stench was strong. The floor was covered with sprinkled clumps of sawdust. My mother sucked in her breath and squeezed her nostrils to protect her senses from the overpowering smells. The bearded butcher in his blood-soaked apron asked, "Do you know how to pluck a chicken?" "Yes, yes, I show you. I pull feathers. Do a good 'job." He led her to a room in the back of the store, pointed to a three-legged stool surrounded by more slaughtered chickens, picked up one and threw it at her. She caught it by the feet. She loathed the feeling of the nails on her hands. For that entire morning she held the chickens by the breast- bone and pulled the feathers from their bodies as fast as her hands would fly. She wanted to be on time for the matinee. jack played among the fallen feathers as he waited for her to finish. I N S I L E N C E 75 She grinned at me and said, "i did bum 'job. I make so many big holes in the chicken skin. With my fingers and spit from my mouth, I pinch holes together." Her skill at mending chicken skin did not hold, and the butcher was angry at her inept plucking. She insisted on pay- ment and he reluctantly gave her five cents for the morning's work, telling her never to return. She fled with the nickel clenched in her fist, plunked it down at the movie theater and sat through three performances of Rudolph Valentino's love scenes. "I sat in movies with jack and scratch and scratch myself all afternoon. My new purple sweater that my mother just knit for me was full of chicken feathers. My hands smell bad. Never mind it was a wonderful day." The next day her teacher requested a note for her absence. She had none and would provide none. "So," said her teacher, "you played hooky again. You 'will be punished this time. You may not go to recess outside wi after lunch for the rest of the school year. You will go to the sewing room and sew." This story pleased my mother. "I did not mind sewing. I sew good. And it was worth it." In 1922, my mother had another reason to work. Her youngest brother, Louis, had diphtheria and her home was quarantined. Except for the doctor who came dally to tend Louis, there was neither entry nor exit. My mother was pleased that she at last had a bona fide excuse to stay home from school. But her pleasure was diminished by my grandmother's worry over her three-year-old son's capacity to survive the disease. She worried too about the coming doctor bills. As the weeks passed my mother grew restless, disregarded the large quaran- 76 Ruth Sidransky tine notice clumsily ' tacked to the front door, and sneaked out to find a 'job. She wandered downtown Brooklyn until she saw the Brooklyn Eagle Electric plant. in she marched to answer the large sign that read, GIRLS WANTED. GOOD PAY. She told me, "I was tall for my age, very skinny and tall. I was smart, too. I asked the secretary lady for a 'job that was on the door. The boss carne to see me. I lied to him and wrote 'I 'sixteen years old deaf girl.' I was fourteen, but on paper, am si 1 1 fool him. He gave to me a 'job." She worked every day from eight to five soldering light bulb filaments, with the tips of her fingers putting the final touch to each light bulb she handled. At the end of each week she received nine dollars in her pay envelope, which she handed to her mother. Initially, my grandmother was angry that my mother had broken the quarantine, but she was relieved to have the money to pay the doctor. She exacted a promise from my mother. My mother solemnly agreed to return to school once the quaran- tine was lifted. When it was lifted and Louis was well, my mother ' ly left for school each morning. Instead, she went to ostensib the factory and Joined the assembly line of working women. A truant officer arrived at my grandmother's home and wanted to know why Mary Bromberg was still away from school. My grandmother was nonplussed. That evening my mother returned to face her scowling mother. "Where do you go every day?" she demanded. My mother confessed her truancy and affirmed that she would not go back to school. "I not learn anything impor- tant there." My grandmother told her stubborn young daughter, I N S I L E N C E 77 "The truant officer says we must pay twenty-five-dollar fine if you do not return to school." My mother was adamant. "I not go back there again. I work help support family and pay bills." She went to her bed and withdrew three pay envelopes from under her mattress and handed them to her mother "Pay fine!" Each week thereafter she gave her earnings saying, intact to my grandmother. And she never returned to school. When I asked my mother if she was sorry she had left school in the eighth grade, she said as my father did, "No, not sorry. I learn more in the outside world, away from school. It was too strict. Better to be free." 78 Ruth Sidransky Four A DEAF WORLD The hearing ear, and the seeing eye, The Lord hath made even both of them. -Proverbs 20:12 And the Lord said to him, "Who gives man speech? Who makes him dumb or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?" -Exodus 4:11 My mother and father knew almost everyone in the deaf community. Their exclusive society was created in the schools they hated, in the schools that barely educated them. The Deaf, as they called themselves, entered deeply into the lives of one another. They formed a protected world, shutting out all those who could hear in their quest for human connection. They accepted neither parents nor children, siblings nor grandparents into their silence. The knowing look that passed between deaf people was akin to the intimate sexual glance shared by lovers. It was a look that excluded the hearing person. I saw them describe each other. "Is he a Deaf?" The answer to the question determined the newcomer's role in their closed society. My father could be cruel; when he did not like a deaf person, he referred to him as a 'shut ear, no-hear id." H' - stup is signs were vigorous and made me shudder. I saw them quarrel with arms and faces flaring in anger. I saw them play with each other as children do, without inhibition, touch- ing each other's shoulders to express their fun. I saw them tell stories of their frequent misunderstandings with the local mer- chants who cheated them. I saw their faces when they told each other how difficult it was to know their hearing children. I saw the expression of ultimate horror when one of them gave birth to a deaf child. I saw them bonded, sealed together in lifetime friend- ships. Their bonding stronger than family ties, the bonding of silence '. When my father clasped his hands together and said, "Louis K. my best school chum!", when he almost touched the floor with his open palm, raising it reverently to eyebrow level, describing the passage from childhood to adulthood, and 'd, "We close als from little boys to grown men," I felt the sal p power of deaf connection, of deaf family. Louis Kazansky and my father quit the 23rd Street school after the fifth grade and together they roamed New York's Lower East Side, exploring the narrow streets where my father was born. Water Street, Cherry Street, and South Street were lined with wooden houses. There was a stable behind my father's house for the horses and buggies that still clomped through Manhattan. My father said, "This just before World War 1. Man who own stable gave to us each a penny to shovel horseshit from the yard. It was good times." His eyes smiled in memory. "In summer Louis K. and me, we went to the East River and swim nude with hearing boys. 80 Ruth Sidransky The East River before was green, clear water. Now it is black filthy." I laughed, waiting for him to tell me his East River story once again. 4.1 was little boy, maybe eleven, twelve years old. We went with large group of young boys, some Christians, some Jews. At the river, we took off all clothes and went swimming and diving into the big river. Sometimes we catch rat. Such fun time for all boys." He paused for dramatic effect, squinted his eyes and continued. "Some Christian boys left sooner than me and stole all my clothes, shoes, socks, pants, underwear and a shirt. I was only a little boy, but Louis K. who is small did not have clothes to fit me. We decide. He will walk first and I will walk behind him following very close. We begin to walk a long way home. After one block policeman arrest me. I try to explain to him about bad boys who steal my clothes. Of course, he did not understand my voice. So I take this big cop by the hand and lead him to my home and my mother. I know she will explain it all to him." "What did she tell him, Daddy?" "She told him that I am deaf and dumb boy and that she 'will watch me next t-me." wi This story angered Louis K. And through the years, each time my father told this tale Louis finished it with the same sentence, his fingers taut with fury: "Stupid hearing people, not understand deaf ways." I understood the "deaf ways." I understood their speech patterns. I learned never to look away from a deaf person's attempt at oral speech. I needed both their hands and eyes to understand the words of their lips, to understand the confusing rhythms of their oral language. Each deaf friend said my name with a different sound. And yet I knew the sound of my name, and whose voice was IN S I L EN C E 81 calling me. When Louis K. shouted "Ruth," I turned to him immediately. His face was sharp with surprise each time I responded accurately to his cry. I opened my eyes wide to communicate that I had heard him. I raised my head, put out my hands and signed, " Yes, I hear you call my name." "Did I say any other word?" "No," I reassured him, "only my name." Louis's sign was rapid. "Turn around, turn your face away, and tell me what I say in voice. I always played this game of "pretend." Without chang- ing my expression I pretended that his thick raucous voice sounded normal. I had no problem catching the sound flaw- lessly if the sentence was short. If there were too many sen- tences the sound blurred and became unintelligible even to my ears. Nonetheless, I became skillful at repeating Louis's words. He forgave my six-year-old hands for the words I missed. He was delighted to speak and have someone understand him. My reward was a quick heave up on his sturdy five-foot frame and a piggyback ride around the living room. He jiggled me up and down until I could no longer bear the continual laughing and bouncing. I poked him again and again, signal- ing, begging that I was ready to be put down. Most times he ignored me. He loved parading me about on his shoulders. I pummeled him with one clenched fist, grabbed his sandy wiry hair with my other hand and banged away at him. I screamed. I yelled louder and louder, thinking my yells would magically restore sound to Louis. It never did. And so one day I stopped yelling; in anger, in pleasure. 1, tool became still. When Louis sensed my quiet frustration, he dropped me to the floor. Instantly he semi-squatted and rocked on his ankles like a bantam cock inviting me to aggression. I stood there with my arms limp at my sides. He waved his curled fists at my face and teased me with his amber eyes. He stuck his 82 Ruth Sidransky head at me like a fighting fowl, daring me to catch him and bite him. I chased him furiously around the room until he let me grab him and bite away my tension. His soft palm tasted of nicotine. When I spent my anger, he cradled me in his arms and signed compassionately, "Better?" I hugged him. "Yes, better." My mother said he was a bum; he had no 'job. He sponged meals from his friends. He was an outrageous human flirt, grinning his eyes at everyone he touched. My father was loyal. "He is not a bum!" he protested to my mother. "Look at his clothes, all worn out, ready to split." His clothes were frayed. His white shirt was yellowed with age. The points of his collar stood up. His one tie was rumpled. He wore it around his neck like a treasured winter scarf. And he did reek of tobacco. "Don't worry Ben," my mother assured my father, "I cook dinner for him. Children love him. I love him too." Louis told my mother that she was the best cook in the world. His flattery earned him at least two hot kosher dinners at our home every week. I know now that Louis went from friend to friend, praising the kitchen skills of each wife. The women responded with gratitude and an excellent meal; Louis never went hungry. When I was older, I asked my father if Louis ever had a 'job. "You know, we were both prize fighters." They sparred together as young men, at the Monroe Street Gymnasium. In 1921 they met regularly to fight, to bathe and to swim. The gymnasium served as a public bath- house for the neighborhood men. The women went to another bathhouse, the mikvah, to be steamed and scrubbed before the Friday night Sabbath dinner. I N S I L E N C E 83 The stink of men sweat was strong. We swim after and be clean." My father cleared an arc around himself in the air, swimming the breast stroke, signifying not only the sign for swimming but his memory of youthful pleasure. I persisted. "Tell me about Louis." "Well," he began again, "he was first class amateur boxer. Not like me-I never fight in the ring." "Didn't he learn a trade to support himself like you?" "He worked at newspaper, Herald Tribune. " I assumed that, like so many of the deaf, whom noise did not disturb, Louis was a trained linotypist, part of the cadre of men who put New York's dally newspapers to bed every night. The roaring clack of hot metal slugs falling into ma- chines fell on deaf cars. Louis, however, was not a trained pressman. He was hired by the Tribune along with the others because he was deaf. He worked for less than two years as a copy boy. He made a practice of picking pockets. As the men worked he went to the long row of hooks on which their coats and jackets hung, and slipped his deft fingers into pockets, filching pennies and gum, dollar bills-a pocket watch if he was lucky. When he was caught by his hearing foreman, Louis was dismissed at once, given severance pay of five hundred and thirty-five dollars and never worked a day again for a wage in h's life. How does he eat?" I asked my father. I knew the Depression deprived us of second helpings at dinner. I wanted to know how Louis ate when he was not with us. "He eats here, with us, with friends, with family. We are friends-family friends." "He does not eat here every night," I insisted. My father was ashamed to tell me that Louis was a peddler. He sold the watches he earned as an amateur boxer in the street to any passerby he could collar. When I was young I did not understand my father's shame. But the first time I saw 84 Ruth Sidransky a deaf peddler in the street with a sign hanging from h's neck that read, "i am deaf. Please buy a pencil," I went up to him in rage, in full view of anyone who could read my screeching hands in the midst of a winter Lexington Avenue noonday crowd and signed, "How dare you? Have you no shame? You have a body and a mind. Go work. Do not beg. You are disgusting!" I was then a freshman at Hunter College. So my beloved Louis was a beggar. I never did see him beg on the street. Deaf hands were wonderful. They could touch, and the touch was soft, real. When my mother's closest friends touched me, whether it was Sadie or Rose, they touched me in the same way. An open hand smoothed my dark hair and said word- lessly, "I know who you are. You are one of us, you are not one of us." It was comforting to be known, disquieting to be unknown, to be locked in paradox. They were kind people. When the poverty of the De- pression permitted kindness with money or food they were generous to one another. Rose Merlis was the only deaf woman I knew who was fatter than my mother. She was married to a man called Solomon who looked like my father, dark and mustached, but had none of his happy humor. They had a brood of children who were all plump and beautiful. They were round during the Great Depression while my brother, father, and I were thin. Their son Morris and I played together by the hour. He was my favorite of all the hearing children of the deaf. Rose's father was a kosher butcher. That family had meat every night. From time to time Rose would bring meat and hand it to my mother. Each time the conversation was identical. Rose said, "Mary, it's for the children." And my mother would say to Rose, "Thank you for the IN S I L EN C E 85 children," as she laid the pack-age on top of the slab of ice in the wooden icebox. When I was five years old I needed a new winter coat. I had outgrown the long woolen coat my mother knitted. My mother took me down to Division Street on the Lower East Side, to the shops laden with clothing and warm coats for children. I saw a blazing red coat with a small leopard-skin collar. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything. Later, I learned to stamp out my own needs, to stop wanting. This time, I was able to clutch to my childhood wish and I cried for the unattainable coat. My mother looked at me sadly when I told her the English military red coat was nine dollars. Her hands moved slowly, saying, "Too much money, I cannot afford." I wept and wept. On the BMT subway trip home back to Brooklyn, she was gentle with my tears and signed openly, "I am sorry, but we are poor." She never signed in the subway-she hated the staring strangers-but she broke her rule to comfort me. Rose Merlis visited us that cold winter afternoon. She brought Morris to play with me but I was too sad to play with Morris, whom I adored. We were kin. We understood how different our mothers were. But not even Morris could lift my spirits. When they left in the first moments of nightfall my mother grabbed me by the shoulders, shouting with her hands, "I have wonderful surprise for you!" I was too morose to share my mother's JOY. "Listen to me," she said, "I have good news." I heard her spoken words and knew that she wanted me to look at her hands. Indifferently, I lifted my head and saw her words. "My fat friend Rose gave me ten dollars for your new coat. Tomor- row we buy you coat and hat to match with fur." In our family album there is a rare photograph of me standing proudly with my plump two-year-old brother 86 Ruth Sidransky dressed in my magnificent coat and a broad smile. Most of the pictures of my childhood were without a smile; my eyes were sad, my mouth sullen, shut tight. But this picture stands alone illustrating my rapture. My mother's dearest friend was Sadie, Sadie with the beautiful hands, Sadie who never washed a dish without wear- ing protective rubber gloves. Her hands were slim, her fingers long and her fingernails coated with fire red polish. In all the years I knew Sadie I never saw a single chipped fingernail. I once said to her, when I was fifteen, Sadie, how do you keep your hands so beautiful?" "My hands are my language, they must be perfect." it went beyond that. It went with her powdered vanity, her tightly curled chestnut hair, her red red lipstick and her profound silence. I never heard Sadie's voice say an accurate word. I knew her sound for my name, but I didn't know her other sounds. Some deaf people feel free to challenge their voiceboxes ' to sound they will never hear, but those who see the continual frown on the faces of the hearing people who attempt conver- sation and comprehension finally give up in frustration. They know that they, who cannot hear, cannot imitate the sounds they are taught, no matter how they struggle with consonants and vowels, with breath and vocal pressure. They give up and 'I and paper notes with the hearing and take final resort to pencil refuge in their own speech, the speech of their hands. Sadie kept her language locked in her impeccably mani- cured fingers. She wore no rings, save a thick gold wedding band, to distract the eye from the beauty of her handed speech. Her hands danced as she spoke. They could move with trained delicacy or with frantic passion. At times I watched her with- out listening. She scolded when she caught me and signed forget hands exquisitely, "Watch what I say, listen to me, understand my meaning." "Sorry," I signed back, "but your hands are lovely." And she would smile and- sign, "I am your true aunt." Sadie and my mother met when they were five, and remained friends all their lives. it was Sadie who introduced my mother to my father at a party in Brooklyn, when my mother was fifteen and my father was twenty. My mother and Sadie looked at each other, preparing to tell me once again the story of that romantic evening. I sat back to listen and watch these women become girls for a moment, moving their chipped teacups, waiting for each other to fill me with their youth and begin the afternoon's entertainment. My mother's family left New York and moved to a farm in New jersey when she was seven years old. When their farmhouse burned down and they could no longer live at the farm that my grandfather had renovated into a makeshift home, they moved back to Brooklyn. It was then that my mother, almost fifteen years old, remembered her friend Sadie. Clutching Sadie's address in her hand, she went to search for her alone. She wandered the streets of Sadie's neighborhood, not quite sure where she was until she saw a friendly young blond man sitting on a stoop. She asked in the best oral speech she could manage, "Do you know Sadie Weisbart?" He recognized the deaf voice at once. He signed painstak- ingly, spelling out each word, "Sadie is my sister!" "I want to see Sadie now, take me." "Sadie is not at home." He took out a pad and a pencil and wrote, "Give me your address and I will bring Sadie to you tonight after supper." My mother scribbled her South Third Street address on the pad. That evening the fifteen-year-old girls were reunited after years of physical separation. Their only connection had been the penny postcards they exchanged weekly. The limited written language of the young deaf girls expressed simple words and could not convey the eye-to-eye nuance of teenage conversation. 88 Ruth Sidransky Their first meeting was tinged with strangeness. They had not seen each other for eight years and did not recognize each other's gangly adolescent bodies. That feeling was soon dis- pelled and Sadie invited my mother to a deaf girlfriend's sixteenth birthday party. The party was set for November 28, 1923. When Sadie left, my mother rushed into the bedroom to tell her father the wondrous news. She was going to a party. She asked for a new dress and wanted an evening gown. My grandfather took her to Delancey Street and in one of the shops, my mother selected her first ball gown. It was black chiffon. The hem was flounced and trimmed in gold. The scooped neckline had a small gold rose sewn at the right shoulder. On the appointed day, the youngest of her hearing brothers, Louis, took her on the streetcar over the Williams- burg Bridge to Manhattan. He was able to ask for the direc- tions to Clinton Street and Avenue D. There they found the apartment house. My mother told me, "i feel foolish. I think it was a party in a ballroom. It was an apartment. And I was the only girl in a long gown. We had to walk up five flights to the top floor." "Didn't you have a good time?" I asked. "Yes, but everyone talked, talked, talked with their mouths, no signing." This was a party for the girls and boys who went to the 23rd Street school in Manhattan. Most of the students were hearing impaired rather than profoundly deaf and were more adept at oral speech. Some were born with residual hearing, others had become post-lingually deaf as a result of childhood illness. Meningitis, scarlet fever, and the measles had eradicated sound from some of these young people. if they became deaf after their speech was established they were able to maintain their power to speak orally with continued practice. "You know," my mother said to me, (l that is when Sadie S I L E N C E 89 brought Louis K. to me. He signed to me, his signs were not very good, but he tried hard. When I explained to him where I lived, he marched to his friend Ben and brought him to me, because we were neighbors 'n Brooklyn." That night, Mary and Ben returned home together on the trolley car. My father purchased the tickets, " two fares for five cents." My father was a constant visitor at my mother's house. When my grandmother Lizzie, my father's mother, was con- vinced that my blond, blue-eyed mother was Jewish, she ap- proved the romance. But when she discovered that my mother had a deaf brother and a deaf sister she tried to stop the young couple. She did not succeed. Coincidentally, as my mother approached her eighteenth birthday, both her mother and my father's mother wanted to know on the same day if they were contemplating marriage. My father asked his mother, "Shall I buy Mary an en- gagement ring?" "Yes," she said, "do it today." That evening, my father gave my mother a small dia- mond ring surrounded by tiny blue sapphires. The engagement party was like a wedding, my mother said. My grandmother Fanny, who was a caterer, cooked marvelous food for the party. The rabbi came and tied a knot in a white linen handker- chief that the young lovers held to seal their troth. Fanny did not live to see them married. But marry they did on May 19, 1929. Sadie and my mother looked at me triumphantly when they finished their story. It was one of the few tales they could tell that had a happy ending. Sadie's marriage to Ruben Tunik did not endure. I re- member Ruben as a handsome blond man. He posed with me in my happiness photograph. I have, forever, a picture of him holding me in the red coat that Rose Merl's bought me. After 90 Ruth Sidransky that picture was taken, he handed me a Baby Ruth. Every Saturday he brought me a chocolate bar and one for my brother Freddie. His own poverty did not stop him. By 1935 he had lost his 'job. His factory, which made leather handbags, closed down. Sadie nagged him to find work, to buy her pretty things, but Ruben was unable to do so. Sadie took her nimble fingers to an exclusive milliner and made custom hats with a skill so fine that not a stitch could be seen. She continued to nag Ruben to seek employment. In desperation- he turned inside himself and invented a window seat with , pulleys so that workmen could wash windows on high build- ings with safety. He took his invention to Washington, D.C., and was able to get a patent for his creative work. Back in New York, he proudly went from office building to office building, attempt- ing to induce someone to buy his window seat. He went to manufacturers who might produce his work; he was not un- derstood and no one bought his invention. Saddened by his failure, he became depressed and wandered off alone looking for any kind of a 'job. Then he simply wandered. Months passed and he grew more silent. Early one evening Sadie came to our apartment looking for Ruben. She told my mother that she had prepared dinner after she arrived home from the hat shop and had waited for Ruben. "You know Mary," she signed to my mother, "deaf are never late." She was frantic when she left. She had hoped to find Ruben with us. Hours later, Sadie's neighbor came to get my parents. I an My mother signed to me slow y d deliberately. "You be a good girl, watch baby brother Fred, watch the clock and when it is ten-thirty, I will be home. Be brave, you now six years old, you are big girl." IN ST L EN C E 91 Her hands terrified me. -"What happened to Ruben?" I asked. "Not now, I will tell you later." When my mother entered Sadie's apartment, Sadie signed, "Mary, I lost my husband. I am widow." Ruben, crazed by repeated rejection, had walked up to the tar roof of the faded Bronx tenement where he and Sadie lived and 'jumped off the ledge. Although the police searched for him, they did not find him for hours. He had fallen into the cellar stairwell and his crumpled body was hidden by the concrete wall surrounding the steps to the basement. At his side was an unused gun and in his breast pocket there was a smashed picture frame that sliced his mother's picture in two. My father came home alone before the hands of the clock reached ten-thirty. I asked him anxiously, "Where's Momma?" "She stays with friend Sadie. She comes home later. Now you go sleep, you are good big girl." I wanted to know what was wrong. No one would tell me. In the morning I asked my mother with my hands, "Momma, why did you come home so late? I saw the time when I heard the door open. It was three o'clock in the morning. She was quite still when she signed, "Ruben die. I stay with Sadie. I go to funeral and you must stay with your grandfather for all the day. No school tomorrow." I do not know why but Ruben's coffin was open, and when my mother told me this years later, I wept. "Ruben's face was all broken from fall to earth, but he was still ' so handsome, sleeping for always. He was twenty-nine years old." My mother's hands fell slowly to her lap when she finished her eulogy for Ruben. After a month, Sadie resumed her regular Saturday visits and with her meager milliner's wages continued to bring 92 Ruth Sidransky chocolate bars, one for me and one for my brother. She no longer brought me a Baby Ruth. That was Ruben's gift for me, our little delightful play. She married again and was wi 'widowed again. My mother said often, "Poor Sadie, never had children, never had luck." She did learn to smile again and finally one day I heard her laugh out loud at Louis K.'s antics in our apartment. No one knew where Louis K. lived-a rooming house somewhere in Brooklyn, a single bed, a single room was probably his home. Was he married? Did he have a wife? The rumor was that he was married to a deaf Cree Indian woman who was a prostitute. I think I saw her once. I remember long, uncombed blue-black hair and the smell of alcohol. Louis was so delighted with Sadie's first laughter that he repeated his drama and as I entered the room unheard, I watched his delivery. He pulled himself up to his full small height, unfolded his arms and mimed his woman. "You see," he began, with princely gesture, "my woman, little woman, make lots of money. She has something different that men want." With that he squatted and drew an imaginary line up his open inner left thigh from his knee to his groin. "You know what this is?" He paused for effect. "This is a big green snake tattoo on my wife's leg with open mouth and fangs that stop just before pussy-cunt for dinner. That's how we make money." Everyone howled but me, I was too young to understand(--. Louis K. felt my presence. He turned to me and seeing bewilderment on my face did his inimitable farewell speech. On pointed toes he pirouetted slowly around everyone, but his signs accompanied in singing voice were for me alone. He sang, as he always did when he left us, "I will see you tomor- " It took him a full minute to sing-sign the words. He row. I N S I L E N C E 93 sounded like a hound dog, baying and crooning his love song for us, full of hope for the morrow. Louis K. is dead now. He died in a small room squalid with age. His deaf cronies missed his dally appearance at the corner newsstand. One became suspicious and went to his room. Afraid to open the door alone, he asked the landlady to call the police. They came and broke down the door. Louis lay in days of unrecognized death. The room was neat. The only disarray was the clothes that the police knocked off the back of the door when his Jacket and cap fell to the floor. His shoes were neatly tucked under his bed. There were no possessions save his clothes, no books, no pa- pers. The only thing of value in the room was Louis and he was gone from life. The police searched for an address book, someone to call, a next of kin. They did not find anything until the door was lifted back to its frame. Louis had known he was dying. On the door, on a large piece of cardboard, he had written, "If you find me dead, please call my brother and sister." Their names and addresses were clearly printed. "Tell my friends to come to my funeral. I want to say good-bye to them." Word travels quickly in the deaf community. The next morning, fifteen people gathered in the chapel to say their final good-byes to Louis. No one knew about Louis's brother and 9 sister, or, I 'f they had known, they had long forgotten their existence. His brother was a dentist or a physician. My father, in the telling, was confused about the exact detail, but he was certain that his name was Dr. Kazansky and that he was a "big rich man." He frowned, shaking his head, that Louis had lived in such poverty. My father said, "We pray quietly. Louis my best chum was in a coffin box. Poor Louis, he is always alone. I pray to God that his soul have a good rest." After the brief service, which no one bothered to inter- pret for the deaf friends who were there, his coffin was put into a hearse. His brother and sister got into a black limousine behind the hearse and the two cars sped off quickly. My father and his friends remained under the funeral parlor's dark green canopy, with their mouths agape. No one told them where Louis was to be buried. No one thought to provide a car for these subway people, to take them to the cemetery. My father turned to me in anger and said in oral words, Son-of-a-bitch hearing people. Never caring for the deaf." My throat constricted and I put my arms around my father. He flung me from his body in rage. When he quieted, he signed, "Not angry with you, Ruth, 'just angry with Louis's brother and sister. They have no feeling for us, no feeling for Louis. We can never visit his grave and see his stone. They hear, we not hear, but we not dumb." When I was a child, when I was seven and eight, nine and ten years old, I often pretended that I was someone else. I didn't pick pockets, steal trinkets and baubles to please the eye as Louis did. I stole parts of hearing mannerisms, hoping in some way that I could be another. While I was still a child the deaf accepted me. Sometimes fleetingly, they let me step into the circle of cherished child- hood. In rare moments they treated me as one of their own, a "deaf." Those were the good times for me: I belonged. I stepped between the deaf and the hearing worlds never quite fitting into either, never knowing who I was. I was me when I spoke in my native tongue, the tongue of hands. I was comfortably me among the deaf. The sounds of their voices were natural to me. The sound of natural speech was strange. I sat for hours at the radio entranced by the discovery of how a word I knew in "deaf" sound really sounded. I was me when I learned to speak normally but I remained apart. I felt safer among the deaf. And the other children-the hearing children of the deaf-were another society. There was 1 red-headed Flo, jack and Anna Bromberg's daughter, my first cousin; Bea and Arthur Rosenberg, children of Frieda and Joe, ' friends. We signed shyly to one another, feign' my parents 1 ing absolute deafness, and broke into gales of laughter at our secret. We could hear. We were the children of the deaf. And when we listened to our parents sign speak we knew that we could not fail them. All of us were laden. All of us were bright, some brilliant, and we knew that we had to succeed. Success did not come in laborers' clothing or the lunch pails filled with food to be eaten at the job site. Our mothers, when they worked, were seamstresses, pedaling dresses on old Singer sewing machines in dusty factories; our fathers worked at semiskilled 'jobs. We, the children, were the prosperous promise of tomor- row. We were all told, at one time or another, by one parent or another, "If I hearing person like you, I smarter than you." There it was, the anger at deafness. We had to be two people: a little deaf, and a little hearing. There were those of us who were sucked into a silence w 1 1 e carr ed with us always. There were those of us defiantly proud of our parents yet secretly ashamed of their garish sounds. There were those of us who, as soon as we were able, left home and abandoned our parents to grow old alone in withering silence. There were those of us who ignored our deaf parents, never quite Teaming to sign well enough to tell them what was in our hearts and minds. There were those of us who deliberately turned our heads when our parents raised their arms and hands to speak to us. And there were those of us who loved our parents with passion. We were the ones who buried the silence within. We abandoned our dreams and took care of our deaf mothers and fathers. They were our children, and we were their parents. We, the children, were invisible. 96 Ruth Sidransky On winter Sundays we sat on my mother's wine-colored linoleum floor, peeling tangerines, listening to the radio, revel- ing in the sound of the shared airwaves. My mother boiled spaghetti, poured cans of Del Monte tomato sauce on the overcooked pasta, dropped in chunks of sweet butter, and we children ate on the floor, enchanted by the magic of the weekly radio program "Let's Pretend." We entered fairy kingdoms and lived in fantasy for an hour. And on summer Sundays, our families would gather, when there was enough money for subway fare, on the green grassy picnic grounds in Pelham Park. We traveled the laby- rinth tunnels of the city to reach the far corner of the Bronx where we played our Sundays away and learned the meaning of "deaf" dignity. When I was eight years old, I did not understand the poverty that made elegant Joe Rosenberg sit at the feet of unknown men at the 42nd Street subway corner shining their shoes. I did not understand the slow courage it took for him to move on into the crowd, without words, when the Police chased him from the corner that fed his family. Once at a summer picnic, he showed us how he mean- dered aimlessly down the street toward Bryant Park, to the massive New York City public library, with his wooden shoeshine shop tucked under his right arm, quietly defying the police. He was a small man with a bulbous nose, one good eye and one bright blue glass eye, and no voice. He never uttered a sound, not even a sound I could attempt to understand. His large glass eye confused me when he signed. I never quite knew where he was looking. His dark wife, Frieda, was smaller than he and she spoke vocally in clear, grammatically correct sentences. She became deaf after a childhood illness, long after her speech patterns I N S I L E N C E 97 were well established. it took me but a moment to adjust to her slightly atonal speech. But she was totally deaf and never knew that her husband had no capacity to vocalize, nor did he ever know the amazing power of her voice. He was not mute; he would not speak. He was reluctant to expose his voice, this man-shoeshine boy. Their children were our playmates, our cousins in sound. Arthur was a high-strung boy my own age, who often bit me. His teeth marks clenched my inner arm. He had no Louis K. He was an unruly skinny boy whose eyes softened at the warm sound of the clarinet we heard on my radio. His family could not afford a radio and a visit to our Bronx apartment was a major event. This ill-clad child had a gorgeous smile that turned down with shame every time his father's shoeshine business was 1 1 am sure, even if he had been a mentioned. H's father, Joe, hearing man, would have been a quiet man, proud of his small family. And he was especially proud that he did not have to seek financial relief from a government agency clerk who would not understand him. It was easier to shine shoes. Sometimes, at our picnics, he would take out his strong- smelling shoe polishes, his oxblood cream paste, the thick black polish half gone from the can, the deep browns, the oozing orange viscous liquid, the neutral creams, the shiny rags, the brushes and lay them on the grass. His palette was ready. When he turned to me and signed, "Want me I polish your shoes now?" I was pleased that he chose me. I placed my small foot on the shoe rest and received his attention with shy pleasure. The other children gathered around to watch him work on his one day off. My father offered him a nickel for his work. Joe looked at him and in his still, emotionless manner signed, "No, Ben, this is Sunday, no one work for money. You save nickel for carfare." We saved our money for carfare. Forty cents paid my 98 Ruth Sidransky father's carfare for four days' work; spending it on a single day's outing was a great luxury. My brother and I sneaked under the subway turnstiles long after we were five. My mother, watching the conversation between my fa- ther and Joe Rosenberg, filled a bowl with her chunky, creamy potato salad, flavored with sugar and black pepper, onions and salt, and brought her gift to Joe and Frieda's picnic site. In our enclave at the park, we ate and talked privately. There was no one to observe us, no one to cluck and shake his head at our strange-sounding Sunday community. "Come, let's play baseball," my mother shouted at every- one. She poked one friend, telling her to poke the next and the next, until all eyes were on my mother Mary. She stood up and raised her arms full of grace and signed into the summer sun, "We now pick teams. Don't forget must have all children on teams." No one really knew the rules of the game, or how many should be on each team. It did not matter, there were so many of us. My father said, "You first Mary, you are Mary at bat." Yes, Mary was at bat and we followed her laughter around the imaginary baseball diamond. She was strong in those days, with a presence we loved. As the sun neared the horizon, we gathered up our day and went home, each family to its own tenement apartment, scattered throughout the city, waiting for the next week's work to end so that we could meet once more. For one glorious day we forgot that we were the children of the deaf. I N S I L E N C E 99 Five MARY . . .And the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped . . . And the tongue of the dumb shall sing. . . . -Isaiah 35.-5-6 SILENT WOMAN The silence is vast, The ocean slides to shore on a cat's paw The silence isftar The silence strikes dumb with awe The strange silence estranged Silence saw Silence, simple, swift No refuge in sound Silence gave sight Luminous light Epiphany We shall observe in silence We shall have the second sight We shall have the second sight The penetration of that alien gift Given to the few Denied the sound of the cat mew Always outside; never inside Language denied A face to hide. In that open human sea The babble, babble, babble ?f talk To whom shall I talk? With whom can I walk? Where is it safe? The face opens Words on tongues, words of teeth Words, words, strung together In afield of billowy human heather The billow rises, human sounds come Who can hear them; the humans With sounded language Who can know the strangeness The shutness, the constant reaching To comprehend the blind sounded words. what is listen? Strange, estranged silence. Mary never forgot who she was. She held me to her, weaving me into her life, refusing to allow me to forget who she was, refusing to allow me to be invisible, insisting that I remember her story and her family's story, insisting that my deaf family was not as important as my real family. She slid her pointed index finger under the center of her chin upward, in one long dramatic sweep, emphasizing the word reat I N S I L E N C E 101 "Your life, my life, same, we are one blood. You are true daughter. Must to know, my story, your story. Save for fam- ily, it is history. " When I was in college she asked, "Maybe one day you write book on me, on deaf life." She was her own heroine, and I am her chronicler. The journal that she was not able to write was written in her hands for my eyes and hands to transfer to paper. She cheated the clock and preserved her claim to immortality, savoring the comfort of repetition, clinging to once-lived memories. There was no literary form to her words, yet they struck the chords of poetry. She was her own muse and I was her audience. Her hand stories were a demand to be known, to be recorded. It was the substance of her life, her stamp upon a world inhabited by hearing men, women, and children whose words formed chaotic sentences confusing her. Her name confused her once. She sat me down and signed, "My real name is Miriam. I was born on Purim, 1908, in England, London, England. It is the time of year we eat sweet cakes." I listened to her hands. Her face was marvelous: she never lost the childlike wonder of discovery. When I smiled at her, she waited for my eyes and face to give full attention to her tale. "My birthday not March 6. You know that. Daddy and I went to England in 1959, alone, brave by ourselves. I want b' to see my birth certificate . Daddy say we never find 't. But I know better. We go to Whitechapel in London to a Hall of Records. There is a clerk man and I write him a note, to tell him I want to find my name certificate. He charge us some English money which I gave to him to pick from my hand. I do not understand pounds and shillings. We went to a room with many shelves, filled with books, all with red leather covers, old and smell beautiful, like big library. I find a book, 102 Ruth Sidransky 1905. 1 find my brother Nathan's page, with my father Abra- ham's signed name, and then an X for my mother's name. I know she write Yiddish, maybe not write English, so long a time ago. Then I find my name in a book, 1908. 1 see my name is Miriam and I was born April 10, 1908. Big surprise." Her eyes questioned me. " Momma," I signed, "the jewish holidays fall on a differ- ent day each year. In 1913, when you went to school for the first time, Purim, maybe, that year fell on March 6. Who knows?" "Yes," she agreed, "I think you must be right. This school change my name from Miriam to Mary. My father always called me Miriam when I was small girl. I always see two m's on his lips when he say my name. I did not understand why he say my name this way when I was a small girl. Now I understand." "My teachers in my first school changed my name to Mary. Maybe they don't like my Jewish name. Terrible. But now, I am Mary and I am used to it. I am born in England and I am Queen Mary." Her hands and eyes twin- kled at her joke. The past was the keystone of my mother's life. It held us together. She repeated and repeated the stories, and they remained the same, verbatim. She told them again and again 'I they were embedded . n me, until they were my own 1 story. When she was in her late seventies, the cadence of her hands was different, deep into memory, deeper and deeper, down to the place where her spirit remembered unburdened happiness. Gone was the confusion of partially understood language. She was a young girl, safe amid her family. She was joyous her hands vibrant and young. Her body, slack with age, IN S I L EN C E 103 assumed the energy of girlhood. And I wanted to stretch my arms across to her and say, "Oh, Momma, I see you when you were young!" but I dared not break the rhythm of her memo- ried hands. I saw her young face. It was Slavic, rich in beauty, with high cheekbones hinting at the Mongolian intermarriage that spread across Russia in the Middle Ages, but the blue-green of her eyes and her once-chestnut hair denied this as a total heritage. She was probably a descendant of that red-headed The of traders that moved across the Russian' steppes centuries ago, the tribe that converted to judiasm. Her father, Abraham, was a redhead. And there are still redheads in Miriam Brom- berg's family. Her stories begin. "Once my father sign to me and I do not understand what he say to me until I see what he try to explain. It was hard to understand his signs." She assumed the stance of a small girl as she continued her memory. "I was playing in a school on the stage with other girls. We were dancing in a happy circle. The theater room was dark. But I look out and I see my father's red mustache standing in the back of seats. I forget the play, I forget the girls and I run off the stage fast to my father calling his name 'Abraham.' Never mind if people hear me, most everyone there is deaf and they cannot hear my voice. I did not care. I was glad to see my father." Abraham waited quietly until little Mary reached him and then, gently, he motioned her back to the stage to finish her part in the performance. She was six years old and stub- born. She clung to him, refusing to return to the stage. The lights went on, the play stopped, and her teacher marched up 104 Ruth Sidransky to them. Mary watched the conversational exchange between her father and her teacher. The teacher's face softened; she nodded her head, assenting to Abraham's request. And there was no comprehension for the young child watching the mouths talk. Her father crouched down to his daughter's height and drew the fingers of one hand together so that the fingertips touched and brought this symbol to his cheek and tapped his cheek several times, quickly. This is the sign for home. It was a word that they had practiced together, a word that she taught her father. It was a word she knew and it delighted her. Abraham had come to take her home. On the way to the dormitory to collect her paj'amas and weekend clothes he held her by the hand, touching her, willing his message through her young body. She shook her head. She didn't understand his message. They stopped on the stairwell; Abraham faced her and tried to reach her through his own sign language. He pinched his thumb and index finger together and with this invented sign in place, he touched his shoulder and struck his arm all the way down to his fingertips and once again made the sign for home. Now there were two words, one that he created and one that she knew. And still she did not understand what he wanted to tell her. On the journey home, he tried again and again to tell her what she needed to know with his own signs. As they ap- proached their new house in Spring Valley, New York, he had no need for further attempts to reach her mind. The smell of the charred white house reached her nostrils before she saw the blackened soot marks of the fire that had claimed their home. She understood that her father had been striking a match down the length of his arm; she understood his word for fire. Lifting her hands, she turned from the house to her father, spread her fingers upward and out and described flames licking into the air. IN S I L E NC E 105 She took her father by the hand, pulling him, motioning him to go with her into the burned house. The staircase was seared and the picture at the top of the landing was gone. Drawing a square with her hands, she demanded to know where the picture was. It was a family photograph of my grandparents with their three oldest children, Nathan, my mother and Sam. Abraham struck a match down his arm again and my mother understood this time that the picture had been consumed by the flames. The family portrait connected her to the house; it was what she looked for each time she returned from school and it was gone. She ran through the house destroyed by fire and smoke looking for her mother. Abraham let little Mary go and waited for her return. "Where's Fanny?" she mouthed to her father. "Momma is in barn." Mary ran across the kitchen garden to the barn, to the temporary home my grandfather had created. Abraham, master carpenter, cabinetmaker, and architect, had fashioned a new home within the walls of the old barn. He built houses and antiqued furniture, he laid parquet floors and made staircases. He carved mahogany banisters and built synagogues. But this time he could not create a permanent home for his family. My mother said to me, "All was lost. I remember every- thing about Spring Valley home. It was happy time. I ride horse and play there with my brothers. I ride horse without saddle. I remember everything that happen. I remember where all furniture is, but now no more. Gone. I was so small a child but I know everything that I see in my mind. My mother was sitting in a wagon with a horse, moving goods and sheets, pillows and chairs to our new barn home." She paused as she always did when her mind clicked to the past. "Once, we all dress up, we have a new horse with a black 106 Ruth Sidransky leather buggy, with beautiful cover and fringes. My mother and me, and jack, who was a baby, went for a ride in the new horse carriage. She gave to me baby jack to hold in my arms on my lap. And then the three of us ride around the farm. I was four years old, very little girl, I turn around and I drop, by mistake, baby jack on the ground. Do you think that is why he 's deaf?" i "No, Momma," I signed, "Jack is deaf because it is in the family. It is hereditary deafness." I spelled the word hereditary; there is no sign I know for this word. She shrugged at my explanation. "The fire was a bad luck for our family. We move from home to home, to a town to a city. My father always look for work, for money . . . he never find much money. He like to be his own boss. That is one reason why my mother and father fight when I was a girl." When the makeshift barn was no longer suitable, the Bromberg family began its exodus, shifting my mother from one school for the deaf to another. She lost the continuity of language and never recaptured the flow of minimal language she might have had. Although all the schools and teachers used the oral method, each teacher had a unique mouth, a singular way of forming a word on her lips, and with frequent changes of schools and teachers it was almost impossible for young Mary to learn the words of one mouth. Her visual connection to clear spoken language was continually interrupted. They moved to Trenton, New jersey, to yet another white wooden frame house, at 27 Union Street. My grand- mother opened a secondhand furniture shop to shore up the sporadic income my grandfather provided. "In Trenton, I walk to a deaf school every day. I tat,- little jack with me. That was good, I was with my family every day. But jack was bad boy." We both laughed at her memory of jack. jack, my mother said, was the most beautiful of all the Bromberg I N S I L E N C E 107 r,children. He had wavy deep chestnut hair, an impish mouth and the Brombergs' Slavic cheekbones. And a temper. He was 'lled and shouted his demands shrilly across the room, strong-wi 1 arresting the attention of anyone who could hear him. Jack was in my mother's charge. They walked together to school most days, yammering at each other in sign language. And when she woke him on school mornings, gruffly, shaking the down quilt over his soft young face, he defiantly refused to go to school. His fingers shot out of the covers and he signed , " You woke me up too hard, for that I do not go to school today." They dressed and went out, but they were truant. "Mrs. Wrigley, jack's teacher, told me that my brother jack is very bright. But why we are two deaf children in one family, Nathan and Sam not deaf?" She looked at me, still questioning, still wanting to know why she was deaf. I did not answer her eyes. I waited for her to continue. "So, I tell you again, I ask my father why. I say to my father, I Abraham, why did God make me to be deaf?' "And he answered, 'God made you deaf because if you could hear, you would be too smart for the world. So he took something away.' " My mother partially accepted the answer; she was pleased with her father's wisdom. But she reminded me over and over again, as I was growing up, "If I not be deaf, I be smarter than you. jack too." Her anger even in age had not quieted. I had heard this before; I would hear it again. "i have common sense. People call me dumb. No, no, I not dumb, no one fool me. I know." She did know and her knowing was handed to me. "Forget now why God made us to be deaf. I tell you about wonderful black Jewish man who come to visit my mother in shop. He was peddler of old things. He was good friend to my mother. They talk for hours. They talk in He- 108 Ruth Sidransky brew. I think he come from old Jewish black tribe in Attica. My mother told me he was from the Lost Jews." "What was his name?" I asked. "You know old wall in Jerusalem, you know I think it was Jericho. I think that is his name, same as falling down wall." When my grandfather Abraham went to Russia to ar- range for his brother's emigration to the United States, Jericho was a guest in the house. And when the evenings turned cold and the snow fell, my grandmother Fanny invited him to sleep on the dining room settee. A wooden bench, barely uphol- stered, and a blanket were his bed for the night. "My mother Fanny was kind woman, she give everyone food and place to sleep. My house was open door, all welcome. We never lock door. We had no key for a front door. Not like today, so dangerous, with chains on doors. We trust people in a time long ago when I was young girl." Jericho was at the house the day the World War I ended. He was there to help my grandmother fill deep metal palls with apples when the soldiers came marching victoriously down Union Street. It was November 1918, and as my mother ran among the soldiers handing them rosy apples from Fanny's winter cellar, it was Jericho who watched her, who filled the 11 again and again fo r until she had distributed five pa 1 r he 1 1 bushels of the fruit. "i think too that Jericho help my father to build a synagogue for Jews who live in our neighborhood. Maybe he not help him with his hands but he was there. I was ten, eleven years old, but I never forget him." This old black man touched my mother with his simple wisdom. She was sensitive about her hair and her head. She never allowed anyone to touch her about the head after the crown was permanently scarred and left bald by her first school's attempt to rid the young deaf child of ringworm. Her I N S I L E NC E 109 hair grew long over the crown of her head, and she clutched the hair to the nape of her neck with a round tortoiseshell comb. She did it still, even when her hair was white. "One day," she signed, "I come home from school with jack holding my hand. jack stay with me because I was crying. Jericho was with my mother. Talking. Heads of two bend over. They not see us come in but they hear us. Jericho see my tears and ask me why I cry." She let go of jack's hand and showed her mother and Jericho with her hands how her hair had been cut short, too short. She pulled the comb tight to her head, down to the nape of her neck, hiding her disfiguration. Instead of comforting her, Jericho left the room and went into the kitchen. He returned with a salt shaker, held Mary by the hand and began vigorously to shake salt on her hair. She was angry and pulled away from this man who had always been so kind to her. "i was mad at him. I tell him not to shake salt on my clean hair, just cut so ugly. He smile at me and he say with his big black hands, 'Don't cry, Miriam, shake salt on your hair every night and it will grow back fast, very fast.' We all laugh and he make my tears stop." She warmed to her memories of this big man. "When my brother Sam was in a hospital, sometimes this black Jewish man take me to hospital on a trolley car. I was twelve years old and Sam was eleven years old when he become sick with the bones in his legs. He was often in hospital, in, out." Sam had osteomyelitis, and Fanny did not trust the hospi- tal food. She had Abraham catch a pigeon from his pigeon coop, take it to the local rabbi for kosher slaughter. She plucked the feathers and made a rich soup for Sam. She wrapped the small enamel pot with white towels while it was still hot and handed it to my mother to bring to Mercer Hospital for Sam. "I bring this good soup to Sam for many, many months 110 Ruth Sidransky to my brother. One time the doctor brought Sam home on a Saturday for a visit. He was wearing crutches. My brother Sam, only one year younger than me, he look so pale, so small. My father faint when he see him. But jack and me and Sam, we all play all day. Sam learned sign language from me all the time, so we all talk and laugh until doctor come to take him back in small private black car." My mother's hands moved rapidly. She was unaware of my presence. "When Sam come home to stay for always, he came 'in with crutches. jack was nine years old and he hate sti wooden crutches. He wait one day, two days and then he tell Sam, 'You walk without crutches.' Sam was afraid that he will fall, but stubborn jack hide crutches from Sam in a closet. jack told his brother, 'i am deaf, but still I talk. You have bad legs but you walk; you walk now.' He teach his big brother Sam to walk without help from crutches. We not tell anyone Sam can walk alone." My mother smiled, remembering the day the secret the three of them shared was exposed in the family dining room. But she missed Jericho. He had stopped coming to the house. She wanted Sam to parade before him unaided. She asked her mother about him. Fanny had no answer and as- sumed that he was traveling, selling his secondhand dishes, bricabrac and old clothes. Weeks passed. One Thursday after- noon when my mother came home from school with jack, Fanny showed her a picture of Jericho in the dally newspaper. Jericho was dead and the article asked for someone to claim the body for burial. Mary asked, "We bury him? We take the body home and wash him for a grave?" Fanny answered, "No, we cannot take him, we cannot tell newspaper we know him. He is not our family and we have no money to bury him." I N S I L E N C E 111 And my mother signed to me sadly, "Jericho never see Sam walk, never see jack bar mitzvah." She shifted in her seat and the tone of her story changed. "We had fun, good times too when all family together. Best times. I tell you we had a big black cat, plenty fur but 'I morning he catch a rat, somet' no tal and fat cat. Every imes a mouse from the fields. So ugly." Her hands shuddered with her body. In the mornings, when my grandmother found the cat's prey with its neck broken, mangled, she summoned jack to dispose of it. He, with ceremony, removed the flat-faced coal shovel from its stand, tiptoed to the dead rat, scooped it up and waved it under my mother's nose. She ran from him, screaming in mock terror. And then, parading behind him, she followed him as he walked the length of their backyard to the high gray stone wall that separated their home from the seltzer plant next door. With one strong movement he flung the rat onto the factory grounds. He grabbed Mary by the hand and they ran back to the house gloating with their safely executed deed. On the day of his bar mitzvah, my grandmother did not call jack to remove the morning mouse. She was busy prepar- ing the table for her guests, for the minyan of ten men who were coming to celebrate this ancient rite of jack's entrance into manhood. "Why," she asked me, "do you think jack was bar mitz- vah at home and not in a temple that my father build?" I did not tell her of the rabbinical injunction exempting deaf boys from the ceremony. The minor child, who has not reached his thirteenth birthday, may not be bar mitzvah. The retarded child who never goes beyond the age of twelve mentally cannot be bar mitzvah. He is the child who is called "the fool." And the deaf child may not be bar mitzvah. These children are not valid witnesses. They cannot distinguish be- 112 Ruth Sidransky tween right and wrong. Although they are not excluded from this rite of passage into manhood, it is not mandatory. They do not have to assume the obligations of Judaism. They are forgiven, for they are touched by God. A deaf boy cannot hear the words of his mother and father. He is the child who cannot hear the words of the Torah as they are read, cannot hear the oral commandments. These words can't enter his heart. But he may be bar mitzvah; he may voluntarily be part of this ancient ritual. This is the paradox. And so the ceremony was held at home, avoiding the 'possible frowning of the Orthodox elders. 1 My mother waited for my answer. I attempted to explain and then I said, "Just tell me about the morning. I want to see the da),." "Many men come to the house. We have a Torah in the house. My father and the men pray, they all wear you know the striped prayer shawl-they move back and forth, they hit their breasts in prayer. Then jack, it was his turn. My father take him by the hand, so proud together, so beautiful to see. I watch jack read from Torah, jack and my father read together. I think so. I see my father's mouth move when jack talk, you know I can't hear anything. I don't understand the words. But I see my mother standing next to me, cry with tears, quiet, come down her cheeks. She does not wipe them away. But I know she is happy her deaf son jack, most hand- some of all, is a man today in Jewish religion." The day after the bar mitzvah, jack, freed from cere- mony, in his old clothes, went out to play ball on the street with his hearing friends, his brothers and his sister Mary. Mary was at bat and jack caught her fly ball, and tossed it to first base. When he turned, wondering where his ball was, he realized that he threw it into a passing garbage truck. jack ran to the truck and demanded to have his ball, shouting at the driver with his deaf voice. The garbage man could not under- I N S I L E N C E 113 -stand jack's shrick'ng vo"ce. He slugged jack on the head. Abraham, watching his children at play, ran across the street from the porch and punched the man in the mouth. Nathan joined in. Louis, who was only five, flailed his arms, attacking the man who hit his brother Jack. The paddy wagon arrived and they were all taken to the police station. My mother, hands almost laughing, said, "Nobody went to 'ail. We had all a wonderful, fun time, long time ago. Now family gone, living all in different places. We were so close a family. I remember good times. Too bad garbage collector not understand jack." My grandfather, worried about Sam, decided to open another business, this time in Princeton, Newjersey, where the air was fresh and clean and where Sam could recuperate from months in the hospital, from years of illness. The family stayed in Trenton. Sam and Abraham took up residence behind the ice-cream parlor that Abraham bought with his last dollars. My mother, who by now was used to traveling alone on trolleys and trains, went on weekends to see Sam and her father. She rubbed her hands together with gustatory pleasure. "I go to store in Princeton and my father always fill up big glass with vanilla ice cream, real whipped cream he make himself and lots of whole walnuts. I ate much ice cream. So delicious." I shook my head at her. "I know I am too fat but I love ice cream. My father spoil me, give me to eat what I want, always." She said, "You know my father, is man with genius hands to make things. He made for us children kites ... and me and Sam and jack, we play on lawn park with kites, flying into a r. watch kites go high, higher to sky. It was happy tines." But they had to move again. Abraham couldn't pay the rent on the Trenton house. The landlord refused to allow them to take their furniture unless he received the back rent. Abra- 114 Ruth Sidransky ham went alone to Brooklyn this time to find work and an apartment for his family and enough money to reclaim his furniture. "So life in Trenton is over. And we move to New York. I do not like New York, no trees, no grass, no garden for my mother to pick fresh foods for our dinner." There was a slow sadness in her hands as she told me this. Abraham found an apartment in Brooklyn, on South Third Street. it had six rooms on one floor; it was dark and my mother hated it. She returned to the school where she had begun her talking life. The Lexington School for the Deaf. But she refused to sleep there and each afternoon she returned home from school by subway. "I walk in a street, past a jail and I see behind the bars my father's red hair. I look again and I see him read the Jewish newspaper. It was the name Daily Forward. I know it is my father Abraham. I know sure. I know his neck when he bend down to read a newspaper. I run home, fast, very fast and I tell my mother what I see." Her hands flew so fast that I stopped her and signed, Momma, you are too quick, slow down, I cannot see every- thing you say." She rushed on, ignoring my request. "I was angry. Why was my father in a jail, like a jailbird? I know he have little money, I know he gamble cards, lots, I know he must be upset Her fingers moved so rapidly I could hardly coordinate now. 1 the speed with meaning. "He build a synagogue for religious Jews in Brooklyn, near other new home. He working with one man, president, I think, of temple, man who make promise. You understand who I mean, very religious Jews who wear long black silk coats on the Sabbath, with big round hats with fur mink trim. It "You mean the Hasidic Jews." "Yes, yes," her hands shouted at me, I tell you now, I N S I L E N C E 115 don't break my story, I tell you all. My father Abraham, he work hard to finish with his carpenter hands, some things . 'inside small temple. President owe him seven hundred dollars for his labor time and wooden goods. Not good man, he never pay money to my father. Bad man. Not like other good Orthodox Jews. My father work hard, so hard and no money. Maybe he fight him, maybe he hit him. I not know, nobody tell me." She seethed at the remembered injustice. tell my mother, in Brooklyn house, I see my father in a jail. She confessed to me, yes, that my father was in a jail, just for short time. But she never tell me why." Her eyes closed. Her hands balled into soft fists. And I waited for her to finish. Slowly she opened her eyes, uncurled her hands, and began again, "My mother say to me, 'Good you know now, you bring kosher dinner to your father tonight.' Once again she carried a warm pot of soup wrapped in towels, this time to her father. He was released the next day. "Momma," I asked, "do you know why your father was in 'jail?" Not sure, maybe he write no-good checks, maybe he hit man who did not pay him for his work. Who knows? Maybe only God remembers now. When my mother and father fight, it was always over money. That is why I true quit a school at fourteen to go to work at Electric Eagle factory. I know I tell you before it was because Louis had diphtheria and I could not go to school, quarantine. But truth was I did not want to go back to school and my family need nine dollars a week I earn for foods and bills. "We had plenty troubles I tell you. Many stories I never tell you before. Now I am old, I open, I tell all stories about my life. "My father, good man, but he faint plenty. When he was young man to work on houses, big steel beam hit him on head. 116 Ruth Sidransky He was unconscious for long time. Always trouble, when he fight with my mother, he faint when he upset. Often. He sweet man, never hit me, never say one cross word to me, in all my life, even when I was mischievous girl. When he see me he 'Come kiss father Abraham on cheek."' say to me, 1 One night, shortly after Abraham was released from the local Jail, my mother awoke to the smell of gas. She rushed from the bed that she shared with jack to the kitchen. Abraham was lying on the floor, the gasj'ets were open and the window closed. She screamed for Nathan and Sam and when they did not come, she opened the window, closed the 'jets and ran to their beds pulling them from sleep to the kitchen. The three of them moved my grandfather's dead weight to the window and pushed him bodily over the sill until the fresh air revived him. Slowly, gently they helped him back into the kitchen." "Did he try suicide?" I asked. "Don't know, nobody tell me, nobody tell me, too hard to tell me in sign language, clear what happened. Maybe nobody want to tell me. They think I am stupid. Not true. I watch. I know." I sat still and she continued. "i like to think maybe he faint again, maybe long ago steel beam that hit him on head make him to become unconscious. But why gas jets open?" I N S I L E N C E 117 six MARY AND BENNY, A LOVE STORY . . .Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. -Song of Songs, 2:14 i watched my mother tell me of her mother's sudden illness and death. "She too young to be so sick, to die. She was thirty-nine years old, and me only nineteen years to lose a mother." And I remember thinking as I had done through my girlhood that mothers were for mourning. My mother mourned her mother all her life. My mother tapped me on the shoulder, signaling for my attention, recognizing that I had wandered into my own thoughts. "I went up to a bedroom, early in the morning to wake up my mother Fanny. We needed her to get ready all of us, for work and school. I touched her shoulder to wake her up. She would not get up, stayed still in the bed, a blanket pulling up over her face. I called my father Abraham to come and he could not wake her up. We did not know, but she had a stroke. Her corner of her mouth was pushed over to one side, she could not speak. She could not make a sign to me." Abraham called for an ambulance and Fanny was rushed to Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn. When the hospital could do no more for my grandmother, when they realized there was no hope my mother said, "They send her to 'crazy house,, a prison for sick people who waved arms and screamed. My father and me, we went into her room, woman nurse open a door with a key. She was locked in. We saw her lying in a bed. She was quiet and smile at us with a twisted face." The asylum decided not to keep her there, and the staff informed my grandfather that she would be sent to a welfare hospital for the incurably ill. Abraham, opposed to this, searched until he found a small private hospital in Brooklyn, the Unity Hospital on Sterling Street. There my grandmother was placed in pleasant surroundings with lace curtains at the window and 1 for her wasting body. They took turns a pretty p ink coverlet r h 1 at her bedside, day and night; someone was always there. During the last week of her life, on that last Wednesday, when it was my mother's turn to sit by Fanny's side, she was so busy with household tasks that she sent jack in her place. jack came back after his vigil and said, "Momma does not wake up!" She had lapsed into a coma. By Saturday she was dead. She never regained consciousness. My mother paused in her telling and signed slowly, "She died on the Sabbath, same as my father when he die in 1939, when you were ten years old. Shame you never know my mother Fanny, she was good to me, to all people. So kind. I N S I L E N C E 119 Never said a bad word to me, never punish me, never. I always call her Fanny, she did not turn around when I call her Momma. Only Fanny." Tears slipped down her cheeks as she mourned once more, although more than fifty years had passed. " There were no funeral chapels, then, like now," my mother said. "They bring Fanny home and we called women to come and make her ready for the grave." The women washed her, laid her on the floor, wrapped in a white shroud, placed seven candles around her body, and sat with her through the night. "When at first I see my mother I scream to see her so still, gone for always. So long time ago, I never forget Fanny." The next day, Sunday, March 13, 1927, they placed her in a simple pine box and draped the coffin in a black cloth with Hebrew lettering. The coffin was placed in a hearse. The chauffeur drove slowly around the Brooklyn block as Fanny's children and her husband followed on foot. A final farewell. She was buried on Staten Island. "I remember her Just like she was here, now with you and me in this room, as I tell you my stories. She never hear me talk with normal voice, but she would be proud to hear my children talk, you and Freddie." At that she smiled. My mother was drawing me in, really talking to me. Her unlined face, even in age, was the face of a child. Her radiance spilled over me, her smile enigmatic. She still only told me the secrets she wished me to know. She told me of her eighteenth summer, the summer before her mother's death. "My father Abraham, he knows Benny Leonard well. In 1925, Benny was world lightweight champion boxer and his friend Charles Atlas was named to be 'the most perfect man 120 Ruth Sidransky in the world.' In 1926, in the wintertime, a man Mr. Epstein, owned lots of land in Sacket Lake, upstate New York, near Monticello. He asked my father to build a camp for children to come, and for Benny Leonard and boxers to practice fight- fa ing in the ring. My father accept and he went with other men in spring to build this camp." Charles Atlas and Benny Leonard were to be drawing cards for this children's camp. My grandfather built the camp, and once again he was not paid for his efforts, nor were Charles Atlas and Benny Leonard paid the large sums of money they were promised. But before the summer, in the late spring, when the leaves had turned from a soft green to the fullness of summer foliage, when the heat rose early from Brooklyn's paved streets, my grandmother wrote to her husband in Yiddish, asking if the family could join him in the country. Within a week they were there. My mother, delighted to be in the country again, went off into the fields to pick wild blackberries for the first evening meal. My grandmother, who as a caterer in Brooklyn supplemented my grandfather's sporadic income, helped the camp cook prepare the meals. My mother was 'joyous in the passing days of summer. "I love the country. It is so good a time with much fresh air, clean, from green leaves and soft brown earth. I was so happy, all family together for a summer. I was young, a free girl. I wear white shorts, white shirt, and white stockings rolled to the knee, like flapper girls. My mother tell me there is a beauty contest, she push me in. I am shy, but I go into the contest. Me, a deaf girl. I did have beautiful legs with thin small feet, delicate." Without preparation, without knowledge of the unfold- ing day's event, she allowed her mother to push her up onto the stage that Abraham built. She walked along the wooden platform, not hearing, but following the young contestants in IN S I L EN C E 121 front of her. When they turned, she turned; when they smiled at the judges, she smiled. The girls were given ten minutes to change into bathing suits. And my mother said, eyes smiling, "I wear an ugly tan woolen bathing suit, but my legs and face, everyone see. I wait for the 'judges to say who win beauty contest. I see everyone in the audience clap; I look around to see who win prize. Then one man, a 'judge, come to a stage and take my hand and make me to go forward. My face became a red coiorl I blush so hard, but I am secret proud. I win a first prize. Yes, I win, for most beautiful girl in Mon- ticello, 1926. Best legs." She turned to me in the fullness of her then seventy years and waited for my response. I clapped my hands, stood up and cheered as I had done each time she told me of her victory over the hearing girls. "Sit down!" she commanded in a happy voice. "I will finish story about me and people who think I am beauti- ful girl." This was one of my favorite memories. "I was lonesome for my sweetheart Ben, so I write him a letter and invite him to come to Sacket Lake, to swim in cool water and go with me to ride in a canoe boat. He wrote me a letter to say yes, that he will come in one week. I was so happy, I take his letter in my hand to shore of lake to watch the sun play with the water. Nobody there, quiet, peaceful place. I was alone." As she dreamed of Ben's impending arrival, she sensed movement. Moving closer to the vibration, she saw two lov- ers partially hidden by a clump of bushes. Moving even closer, she watched them gently kissing, arms and legs around one another. The man looked up and caught my mother's eye. In panic, ashamed of her prying eyes in the moment of their privacy, she dove into the calm lake water. She could not swim. 122 Ruth Sidransky The water was deep and she screamed, "I drown, I drown!" Her sharp cries drew the boxers from the ring, her father from his hammer and her mother from the kitchen. Benny Leonard went in after her. And within seconds, sputter- ing, her clothes and shoes heavy with lake water, she was on the shore, facing the crowd that had gathered to watch her rescue. Her mother, relieved, put her arms around her shiver- ing daughter. As they walked up the path, back to the camp, the man whose eye she had caught approached them. My mother, embarrassed, lowered her head as her mother Fanny and the man spoke. Mary peered at them, straining to understand, to see how angry the man was. He handed Fanny a business card. She lifted her head and looked directly at them, waiting for an explanation. The man was Florenz Ziegfeld's manager and he offered my mother the chance to be part of the famous Zieg- feld chorus line. Flattered, my grandmother, in faltering but firm signs, explained to her daughter who this man was and what he wanted. My mother shook her head at this offer. Fanny, understanding, said, "Not need to hear, you can follow the girls on the stage, like the beauty contest." "I am not chorus girl. I am deaf girl!" I watched her eyes as she said, "If I not be deaf, I would be famous today. Maybe a movie star." Her pleasure expanded as her hands continued , But Ben come from New York one week later. I was happy to be with him, and I forget about Florenz Zeigfeld. I tell Ben about a chorus girl on Broadway, but he not force me, nobody force me. I am me." My father dismissed the story with a shove of his hands into the air, eager for me to see his words: "Benny Leonard fight with me in a ring. I was good boxer, strong hands, but I think he take it easy with me, not punch too hard. But I IN S I L EN C E 123 punch him good with my fists., inside round black leather gloves." It was a time of life for things that might have been for them; fame as a beauty, fame as a boxer, eluded them in their 'lances. My father's deep black eyes saw my thoughts and said, si "Never mind, we are happy, many years, love Mary best. We have happy life. Deaf not so important. " My eyes did not respond to his acceptance. He pushed me on the shoulder, forcing my attention to his hands. "Look at me, watch me, I tell you something. You know Charles Atlas, famous perfect man, he think he strongest man in world, always walk around camp with his arms and muscles up for all to see. He big fake, he big fairy man, I give him one little punch and he fell down. Afraid of me, of my strong hands and body. He fall on floor, on earth, without a sidewalk, put his hands in front of his pretty face and wave to me, 'No more, no more."' He laughed and I laughed at this nonsense. And things that might have been passed into history. The misunderstand- ings of their youthful lives, their lives of silence, in old age clarified into acceptance and laughter. He said, "Ruth, better to fool around than cry." He turned and left the room as silently as he had entered it. When my father died in 1984, we sat in the sunlight, my mother and 1, and she signed to me, "Stay still and I will tell you a story. I remembered all the stories I had heard before, the reality and the mythology of her life, and wondered which story I was to hear and see again. Then I sensed that this was to be a woman s story. I held my breath at this breach of silence and watched. "You want to hear my statement about your Daddy Ben; he J' 'Ib'rd." She opened the fingers of each hand and was a al 1 gently slapped one over the other to describe my father peering out from behind bars. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. Her words were explicit. "Be patient." She was about to tell me a secret, to admit me to her private world. I did not move. "You know when I lost my mother Fanny, when she die on March 12, 1927, 1 was heartbroken I cry too much. I want to call off wedding to your Daddy Ben." The first day of April my father came calling on his beloved Mary. In their signed conversation, he inadvertently insulted her dead mother. My mother did not remember the insult, only her feelings of mounting rage and the memory of her shrouded mother on the floor with seven burning candles around her body. My father fell victim to her fury. She took off her small diamond engagement ring studded with sapphires and threw it at my father, demanding that he leave and never return. I laughed at this moment in the story. "Not funny!" she retorted in her full soprano voice. ", want to see Ben, but my father Abraham told me it was over, to forget Ben. It was only two weeks after my mother died. He was too much sad to understand that I was heartbroken twice." She waited another day and confronted Abraham again. She had been ill, vomiting and crying, filled with physical grief. She decided to tell her father everything about her relationship with Ben. In the days of the promise of marriage, in the days before my grandmother died, in the swell of their declared troth, Mary and Ben went behind the locked doors of my father's bedroom and played in their new love. "I didn't know about sex. Too bad Daddy's mother not say we not allowed alone in the bedroom. Shame on her. We were so young, nobody explain me anything." Mary became pregnant at eighteen. When she told her mother that she had not menstruated that month or the month before, my grandmother knew at once. She tried all the reme- dies she knew to rid her young deaf daughter of the unwanted pregnancy. She tried the remedies she had learned in the New World and at last resorted to one she had learned in the village of Smargon, Poland, where she was born. My mother moved her head from side to side and signed, "Your grandmother take me into the bathtub with plenty hot water and add lots of wine that she made herself. She make wine every fall. But that not work. Nothing work. So she find a doctor far away from my house on South Third Street in Brooklyn and there I have abortion." Late one afternoon, after my mother came home from the factory where she worked, they took the local streetcar to the end of the line and walked slowly to a large wooden house. The doctor took my mother into his office, pulled down the shades and performed the curettage that removed the child from her womb. "Sad time, yes, it was sad time. My mother understand, was very good to me, told me never to tell anyone. This was woman's secret and now I too was woman, at eighteen. I pay the doctor one hundred dollars, money I save to buy sheets and 'pillows, blankets and towels for my wedding. It was over." Pi Hearing this story for the first time, my grandfather, enraged at this violation, had my father arrested for rape. it was not rape; it was the love-play of two innocents who didn't understand the possible consequences of their actions. Together, my mother and her father went to the local police station and issued a formal complaint. She had merely intended to frighten my father into returning, by charging him with breach of promise. My mother loitered near the corner of the police station and watched as my father arrived, ashen, between two burly policemen wielding billy clubs. When my mother saw his handcuffs, his hands tied by metal rings, his 126 Ruth Sidransky hands unable to speak, she was filled with remorse. She waited for an hour at the corner, thinking, planning, and then made her move. She went into the station house timidly, wrote a note and handed it to the sergeant at the oak desk. The note 'd, "I want to see my friend, Ben Sidransky." sal 1 My mother was beautiful, her smile winsome, and the sergeant succumbed to her charm. He led her to the cell where my father clutched the bars. His handcuffs were off. She spoke to him contritely. "Ben, I am sorry. Very sorry. Please come back." He looked straight ahead and ignored her pleading hands. He gave no sign of recognition. He was deeply angry. He had done nothing wrong and wouldn't look at my mother. She tried in vain for some sign from her Ben. He gave none. Despondently, she walked home alone. The next morning at the Driggs Street courthouse, the case came before the 'judge. My mother and grandfather en- tered the courtroom early and sat down in the first row of hard wooden benches. When my father was led before the court- room by the bailiff, he was disheveled; he had slept in his clothes, refused food, and had neither washed his face nor combed his thick black wavy hair. My mother signaled for his attention with her eyes, with her hands, but he was adamant. He wouldn't look at her. She was more contrite than ever. Her plea before her father had gone awry. The case was called. Ben stood before the bench with his mother. My mother Mary watched the proceedings but did not know what was said. No court interpreter was provided. This day my mother sat in her accustomed silence in the midst of oral discourse and waited until the judge freed my father on ball. My father left the courtroom without a glance at my mother. She later learned from her father that Ben was freed on one thousand dollars' ball. My grandmother Lizzie paid the IN S I L EN C E 127 fine. The 'judge told her that if young Ben did not agree to marry my mother he faced a ten-year Jail sentence. When my mother learned this, she was frightened, but undaunted. Her Ben would not go to jail. That afternoon she didn't go to work, but ventured to Ben's home. She knocked on the door, rang the bell; his mother answered the door. Mary begged for admittance, but my grandmother didn't allow her into the house. She had hurt Benny. When he had returned from the courtroom he had stormed into his house, picked up a large kitchen knife, rushed into his neat room and slammed the door shut. His sisters and mother banged on the door. "Benny, come out. Benny, open the door!" He didn't answer; he couldn't hear them. And if he could have heard them, I am certain that he would not have 0 1 opened the door. He wanted h's solace. He was stubborn and sat alone in his room until night came. He would see no one, not even his Mary. Mary mulled over her foolishness; now she not only grieved for her mother but for Ben. She went home and sat in the dining room alone until she came up with a plan and an accomplice. She explained, "I went to see my friend Tessle, you know she have two deaf sisters, she was deaf too. I know that Ben is friends with that family and visit them often. They were neighbors, they live on Bedford Street, around the corner from South Eighth Street where Ben live. I told her to invite Ben to see her on a special day and to let me know what time, and I would come half hour later." As she told me this, her face changed; she was animated, delightful, pleased with her own shrewdness. She patiently waited two weeks before the day was ar- ranged. She dressed for the occasion. She wore clothes that she had been saving for their honeymoon: a pale green angora sweater to set off her green flecked eyes, a navy blue springtime skirt and tiny pearl earrings. She was a warrior and set her strategy meticulously. When she arrived at Tessie's apartment, she was armed and ready for battle. Tessie's mother answered the doorbell and ushered my mother into the living room. Mary, who was naturally consumed with shyness, marched in with her head high and a glorious smile on her delicate, cameo-like face. My father turned from his signed conversation with Tessle and saw her. He rose to leave; he could not accept her presence. He had suffered public humiliation and harassment, he had spent the night in jail, and the case was still to come before the 'judge for the final settlement. His anger rankled. He was stone-faced and did not lift his arms or hands to greet this young woman whom he loved. As he attempted to brush past my mother, on his way out, avoiding her eyes, Tessie inter- vened. "Please stay, Ben. It is time for me and my family to eat a supper. My father work on the night shift and we must eat early. Wait for me, I want to talk to you. Please." She left the living room; my father was stranded with my mother. The estranged young lovers were alone. Their eyes touched and then their hands. Mary said, "Oh, Ben, I am sorry. I was a little crazy. My mother just die, and I say stupid words to you." Ben was unable to resist. He succumbed to her grace. He said, "Come Mary, we go to the Williamsburg Bridge and we talk more about you and me, about what happen." Hand in hand, they left Tessie's apartment, walked down the stairs onto the street and made their way to the bridge. In the middle of the majestic span, they paused to circle one another with their arms and to kiss. My mother turned to me and with a full smile, said, "We made love in the going away sunshine." Ben turned to his Mary and said, "Let us run away, we can elope, we can marry now, tomorrow." , "Yes, we will run away. Mary answered with her hands I not tell my father, and you will not tell your mother. We 'will do th's in a secret." wi "How we do this?" asked Ben. "I will go home soon, we walk together to my house, I will pack small suitcase, you do the same after you go home and we meet tomorrow to marry." They were gleeful. When Mary arrived home, Abraham, noticing the dif- ference in her demeanor, asked, "Miriam, you are so happy; when you left here you were sad. What happened to you?" Unable to keep her secret, she confessed her plans to elope the next day with Ben. He was opposed to the elopement, insisting that the original wedding take place as her mother had wished. At the same time, Ben was confronted by his mother for the change in his step, in his buoyant mood. When he told his mother of his Plans, she said, "It is over, don't marry Mary, there are three deaf in the family. Do you want deaf children too?" Benny was so angry at her rejection of his beloved that he grabbed a knife again, this time threatening to kill himself if she did not agree to their marriage. She relented. The parents of the bride and bridegroom-to-be met and discussed the wedding plans. My father's mother, Grandma Lizzie, refused to make any plans for the wedding until Ben was cleared in court, until all the charges were dropped. By the end of the first week in May, they were all back in the co 1 1 1 1 1 urtroom on Dr'ggs Street, waiting 'impatiently for the 'judge to call their case to the bench. When my father saw his name and my mother's name called, he went before the 'judge. The judge asked, "Do you promise to marry Mary Bromberg?" Ben nodded his head and answered with his own voice, "Yes." My father understood without an interpreter the 'judge's 130 Ruth Sidransky demand: "You must marry in one week. This must be certain." The wedding was hurriedly arranged to take place on the nineteenth of May, at his mother's house on South Eighth Street. Mary had won; she was ecstatic. With Abraham, SILL: went to the Lower East Side to rent her wedding dress. She said, "It was a beautiful lace dress, with a long veil and small white flowers, and it cost eighteen dollars to rent for a one- night wedding." On that Thursday, the morning of the wedding, Mary and Abraham went to the cemetery to pray at Fanny's gravest 'de. It poured on the Staten Island Ferry, it poured at the cemetery. The grave was fresh. There was no tombstone, no sod. "I do not mind the rain at the grave. I came to see my mother before Ben and I marry. She was invited in her soul to be at my wedding. I was the first of her children to marry." She paused at the gravesite in memory and signed, "You know my father never have much money, so Nathan work part time as bellboy in hotel in New York for almost one year, he save all money to buy a stone for my mother." She raised her head and signed after a moment, " my father and I not talk all the way home on the ferry, we both think of my mother who just die." Weddings are joyous occasions but this one was marred by Fanny's absence. As the marriage vows were recited, both in sound and in sign, my mother and her family wept. My father glowed. His thick black hair was plastered to his head with Vaseline; my mother's head was covered in a veil that cascaded down her shoulders and over her arms. Her lace wedding dress reached 'just below her knees and her small feet we 'lk slippers. Ben wore tails re adorned with pointed white silk 1 1 and the satin lapels of his Jacket reflected the pleasure in his shining black eyes. His mustache was trimmed; it accentuated I N S I L E N C E 131 the smiling curve of his full mouth. In their wedding photo- graph they stand stiffly, full of promise. Their smiles are slightly contrived for the camera but their happiness is evident in my mother's soft eyes. She held the wedding picture up for me to see; she had removed it from the dresser. I said, "It is a happy picture." She replaced the framed photograph; her hands were abrupt. "No, not too happy. I miss my mother, sad she not there to bless us on wedding day." She waited for her thoughts to collect. "Wedding day not so good. When we were married under velvet chuppah in Ben's mother's living room by a rabbi, and we come to see all people to wish us good luck, I turn around and see my brother Nathan and Ben fight with fists. I not know why. My cousin stop the fight. It was not good, not nice." She didn't want to remain at the house; she was disap- pointed at the table my grandmother Lizzie had laid. "Cakes and whiskey. Some herring. A little fruit. That was all." Her cousin who stopped the fistfight invited everyone back to my mother's apartment. He said they would all have a wedding feast prepared by his wife. My father's family was reluctant to accept the invitation. His sister Anna told Benny to stay at home with his own family, not to go to the wedding party planned by my mother's family. Mary, angered by Anna's request, turned to her. "I look at Anna and tell her, 'What do you want, Ben is my husband now and he go with me. 1 The estranged families parted, and my father's family stayed at home without the bride and groom. Mary and Ben and her family trooped through the rain-soaked streets to her apartment on South Third Street, five blocks away. This time the living and dining rooms were prepared for a celebration, a wedding instead of the funeral that had taken place two 132 Ruth Sidransky months earlier. The three-piece brown leather living room suite was pushed to the walls, exposing the enormous cabbage roses at each corner of the brown rug. The French doors between the living room and dining room were opened to accommodate the long table my grandfather Abraham made for the occasion. The table was laden with food, hot and cold, sweet and tart. Ben and Nathan shook hands over the food, and peace was restored between the new in-laws. And when the night was over, Nathan, laden with wed- ding gifts, accompanied the newlyweds to their new fifth-floor walk-up apartment. The door closed. In the morning Mary awakened, rolled over to touch Ben and he was gone. She looked for him in the small apartment; he was not there. She waited minutes and then an hour, and then some more. At last he opened the door with his key and strode into the living room, sweating, smi 'ling. Mary asked, "Why are you gone so long a time? I am awake almost two hours." , "I need to run on the W'll'amsburg Ben answered I 1 Bridge in early morning. You sleep. I cannot wake you up." My mother recounted these days to me with lucid hands. It was a happy time for them, a time filled with discovery in their new roles, in their love. Six weeks passed and she received a letter from her father. "I get letter from Abraham in Monticello. I never call him 'Papa' or daddy,' only Abraham, he never answer when I call him 'Pop.' " I asked, "What did the letter say?" "My father take three children to Monticello with him to build houses. Rose was five years old, deaf, Louis was seven and jack was fourteen years old. No one to take good cares of children now that my mother Fanny gone. He ask me to IN S I L EN C E 133 come to the country to take care of children until school begin, only for a summer." Mary and Ben, barely six weeks after their wedding, put their furniture in storage, and went to Monticello to care for the young children. My mother was happy to be back with her family; she had worried about the young children. Ben, child of the city, grew homesick for the city's vibration and within a week was back in his old room at his mother's house, back to work as an upholsterer. Mary stayed through the summer, but instead of winning a beauty contest, as she had the summer before, she cooked and cleaned and played with the children who were now her own. She cooked in a large community kitchen shared by the families of the work- ing men. "I never work so hard in my life. We each of the women take turns to clean big stove and very big kitchen floor. Not so bad, I was young. But terrible when we cannot find jack." jack, bored with life in the country, walked to the road, put out his thumb, and hitched a ride to New York. He had no place to go; Abraham had given up the apartment on South Third Street. jack made his way to my father's house and stayed with him. Neither jack nor my father returned to the country that summer. When the summer was over, they all returned, my mother to Ben's house, sleeping on the floor for two months until 'I the young couple were able to find another apartment on Clymer Street and remove their own furniture from storage. Abraham and his young children slept in his car until he found an apartment close by. With their furniture out of storage, my mother began her cleaning and polishing tasks with zeal. "I was pregnant with my first baby-not you, Ruth-and I sit outside window washing windows, sitting on a sill outside in air, to make glass shine, so I can see. I get stuck when I am finished, I can't open windows to come back into my rooms. I paused in her story, shook my head at my mother, continually washing windows, ignoring all danger for her window to the world. I scream, neighbors hear my deaf voice, call police and firemen. The fireman rescue me with big ladder. I laugh and I cry very hard. I was safe with unborn baby. No problem." In -N4ay, she went to the hospital to deliver her child. She was in labor for nine hours and screamed throughout. No one had told her what to expect. She was twenty years old and frightened. When the baby was born and the doctor held up an infant girl for her to see, with all its toes and fingers, she cried with relief. It was over. This beautiful baby girl was to be named Fanny, for her mother. "Baby perfect, pink face. I look again and I see baby's left ear a little bent over, but otherwise perfect." She looked forward to the four-hour nursing schedule. She enjoyed her suckling infant. On the third day, as the nurse brought the babies around, my mother asked the nurse, "Where is my baby?" "Your baby is not feeling too well. We will bring her tomorrow. My young mother remained in the hospital bed for nine more days and never saw the baby. Each day, up to the day she left, she wrote notes to the hospital staff asking for her baby. No one gave her an answer. They were evasive and she was suspicious. On the twelfth day, wobbly from enforced bed rest, she was taken home by my father. That afternoon, Abraham came to visit. Convinced that she was healthy and strong, he an- swered her question without being asked. "Miriam," he called her by her given childhood name, "your baby died on the third day in the hospital." "Why?" "No one knows." "Did nurse drop her?" IN S I L EN C E 135 "No one knows, it is better now than later." Mary wept. "Why nobody tell me before? I am not dumb. Where is my baby now?" Ben signed gently, "Baby is buried here in Brooklyn. I hold a white coffin box in my arms myself until we put baby in ground to rest for always. She is angel now." "Did you put baby's name on grave?" "No, there is no first name, 'just 'Baby Sidransky.' i "i know her, she is Fanny for my mother. She is with my mother now." I was born the following July, in 1929. 1 was tended carefully lest I die too. My naming was charged with deep feeling. My mother wanted to name me, once again, for her mother Fanny, but the rabbi wouldn't permit it. I could not be named for a dead child who had never carried the name. When we left the hospital, my mother and I with my proud father, we went directly by cab to his mother's home. My mother was angry at this; she was tired and she wanted to go home. Ben could not contain his 'joy; he wanted his mother to be the first to see me. I was named for her mother, Rachel Rosen, according to the custom of using the first letter of my great-grandmother's name to choose mine. My grandfather Abraham, in his excitement, came straight to my grandmother Lizzie's house. I was his first grandchild and he wanted me to have a middle name, he wanted me to be part of the Jewish naming process. My mother witnessed the angry words that passed between my quarreling grandparents. When my grandfather insisted that I have a middle name, my grandmother scorned, "What for?" And so I have but one name, Ruth. My mother said, "I never know I have middle name until 136 Ruth Sidransky I am seventy-seven years old. My brother Nathan write and tell me my middle name is Shifra. All my life I have no 'middle name, you have no middle name. That 1 1 mi s I'feel, funny sometimes. Frustrated, tired, and hurt, Mary demanded to be taken home. She needed to rest. My father carried me, and my grandfather supported his daughter as they walked the few blocks to their brownstone apartment on Clymer Street. She turned to me in the fading afternoon light, lifted her arms and said, "Your grandmother should come to my house first. I 'just had a new baby, you Ruth." I looked at her as she told me of her anger, the anger she 'II c ried with her, and said, "Momma, 't does not matter sti ar I 1 1 1 that I do not have a middle name, I know who I am. I am the daughter of Mary and Ben." Her face smiled, her expression changed and she signed deliberately, "You have no middle name, but you are Royal Ruth to me always." IN S I L EN C E 137 Seven BENNY And this is the blessing, wherewith Moses the man of God blessed the children of Israel before his death. . . . Of Benjamin he said.- The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by Him; He covereth him all the day, and He dwelleth between his shoulders. -Deuteronomy 33:12 No one called him Benjamin. He was Ben, or sometimes Benny. The hearing called him Benny. I called him Daddy Ben. He signed his name Benjamin. And when they called him "Benny the dummy," my ire rose. Dummies do not make 'joy. And my father made 'joy. He massaged his chest, his right hand over his heart, smiling, "Come now, we go to enjoy ourselves." When my face was downcast, he said, "Smile louder." I laughed and answered, "You know that smiles don't have sound." "Call Momma," he said. "I will put out the lights and we will have theater show. I will make the show." The lights were out and it signaled my mother's entrance into our living room. She moved as she always did, as though she were listening to courtly music, effortlessly, to a quiet inner beat. "Call Momma!" he insisted. "She is coming, I can hear her." "i forgot, you are a hearing person." He cupped his hands over his ears, making me laugh with his exaggerated gesturing. He lit a candle and the glow flickered against the back wall. "Now, all ready!" he shouted in voice. "We go to the zoo." He splayed his fingers, arched his elbow and created deer bolting across the sky. He turned to watch us as we sat wide- eyed with the wonder of his magic hands. The shadow of his hands galloped across the horizon and horses moved in an arc up to the ceiling and disappeared. We saw roosters fight, and long-necked giraffes nibbling from treetops. We cheered when we saw the elephant's lumbering trunk slurp imaginary water from his hand. He was wonderful. He blew out the candle and demanded lights. When the lights were up he said, "Now tell me what animal is this." Our smiles were loud, vocal. We waited in anticipation for his gorilla act. He crouched down, low, lower, and danced around the room, glaring at us in mock rage, picking insects from his fur, snapping them between his fingers, and then, placated, he sat and calmly peeled a banana, eating it slowly. My mother said, "Enough fooling around, now we take the children to the real zoo tomorrow." I N S I L E N C E 139 Not to be upstaged, Ben insisted on taking us out for a walk. My mother protested, the hour was late. He ignored her protests and said, "Come, Ruth, we will go to find the animals in the street." I put on my coat, my father his Jacket and cap, and we went into the lamplit street. I stood at the door waiting for him; he collected the evening garbage in a large brown paper bag and held it to his chest. As we walked down the stairs he sal 'd, "Don't tell Momma, I save leftover foods for the dogs, cats and pigeons. 91 When we got to the alley where the dented metal cans stood, the cats scavenging for scraps scurried away. He grabbed a lid and banged it against a can, creating a loud noise. He sucked his lips together in a welcoming gesture and the cats gathered around, the stray dogs came, and he stood among them, hand-feeding them from our evening meal. The dogs nuzzled against him; the cats arched their backs, ready for attack, fearful of the dogs; yet they all remained. He quieted the cats, throwing scraps to them far from the dogs around his legs. He had no fear of the animals, nor they of him. He gave me a piece of grizzled liver and said, "Now watch me, how I feed a dog, then you do the same." The liver felt oily in my hand, it smelled of browned onion, but I held it. A large tawny dog with floppy ears came up to my hand and I backed away. "Do not be afraid, the dog wants the food, do not move, just open hand and put it under his nose. He will come, he will never bite you. He will be your friend." The dog licked the liver out of my hand, then licked my hand clean. I giggled and my father patted my head. "See I teach you to be friend to the animals." I often went down with him after that first experience, and together we fed the neighborhood animals. 140 Ruth Sidransky One night, still smelling of the upholstery factory, he walked into the kitchen and signed, "I have surprise!" He pulled Momma away from her boiling beef stew, me from my book of fairy tales, Freddie from his metal toy soldiers on the floor, and said, "Follow me to living room." We gathered to hear his news. "Everyone sit down now. Supper wait for few minutes. 71 We were still. He reached into his 'jacket pocket and pulled (-)ut an envelope. "What you think I have here inside?" "A letter," I said. "No, too easy. Think hard. Use brain. You now nine years old." He was laughing, pleased with himself. "All right, tell you. Inside a small white envelope I have present for all family." I reached up to grab the envelope from his hand. He was too quick for me. "Not fair. You must tell me what you think." "i give up, Daddy," I signed. "Tell us now." "You know big animals come to New York, lions, tigers, elephants, maybe long-neck giraffe, music for children, show for all to see." "We're going to the zoo again?" I asked, disappointed. "No zoo, zoo in Bronx, we go to New York, we take subway to Manhattan, we go to Madison Square Garden. We go to circus. We jumped over him. He scooped me up and signed with i 41 his free hand , You like surprise?" It was Saturday, time for the circus. It was time for Madison Square Garden. We were excited, and my father Benny was the most elated. "We can't be late for a circus, much to see, many animals, fat lady, two heads person, smell sweet cotton candy, lots I N S I L E N C E 141 peanuts, see elephant and clowns. Tickets expensive. Hurry, hurry up. We go to subway, we not miss anything." He was electric, charging the air with his body and his signs. We were going to the circus! The air was sharp as we walked to the subway. My father walked alone, my mother trailed behind him as she always did. I walked with my brother. At the station my father reminded us, "Now remember when man no look, you both go fast under subway, no pay fares, save money." We did as we were told, walking with my mother, while my father distracted the casher at the booth. Hey, kids, you can't do that. You have to pay your nickel. Come back!" he shouted. I pretended deafness. I raised my hands to sign to my brother, ignoring the man's angry words. I signed to my mother, "Hurry up, we miss train. I hear it coming." She stopped me. "Do not talk to your brother in sign. You not deaf, you hearing children, speak, with mouth now." I shrugged my shoulders at her, defiant. On the trip from the Bronx I never uttered a word, nor did my brother. We signed. My mother and father turned their heads from us, angry that we refused to speak orally. When we were outside, walking to the Garden, my mother said, "Why you sign? Are you ashamed you can hear? Are you deaf, same as your mother and father?" My father stopped her harangue. "Just children , when get older will understand better. They 'just play. Forget it. We go to have good time." The Garden was noisy, smelly, and I darted away from my father. He pulled me to him. "You hold my hand till we sit down. Not get lost, very big place here. Momma hold your brother Freddie hand." He held me tight with one large hand and with the other pointed at every new sight, teaching me how to look, how to see. "Touch with hands. Feel shaved wood on floor. You must touch with fingers. Hands will make you under- stand more." I touched the trampled sawdust with one hand and clutched my father with the other. "Now remember, do not touch lion in cage. He bite off hand, maybe then you feel nothing, learn nothing." The noise stilled, and I listened for the silent spaces, spaces that allowed me to ingest the sights. I discarded the extraneous sounds filtering from the continuing crush of people entering the circus uproar. My father pushed my shoulder. I looked up at him and he signed, Remember when we lose you on a Williamsburg Bridge? Not lose you now. Stay close to my hand. Hold my belt, tightly." I left the circus, lost the smell of the three-ring extrava- ganza below as we climbed to our seats. I was on the bridge that linked Brooklyn to lower Manhattan. My father said, "Look at the thick wires that hold the bridge to the land. They are strong strings, metal thread that weave water to the land." He wove the cables through his fingers, awed. And we walked across the bridge, hold- ing hands. And when he wanted to praise the bridge, he relinquished my small hands and said, "See, see the bridge, look at it, learn it. It is a song made by men, by men who work with their hands like me." Solemnly he lifted me to his shoulders so that I could be taller than he and said to me in voice, for I could not see his hands, "What more can you see?" He swung me off his large shoulders and said, "Tell me what you see, Ruth, my baby Ruthie." I saw the water glisten, the sunlight skipping on the gentle ripples. I saw the birds whose names I didn't know fly high. I was 'joyfully alone. IN S I L EN C E 143 "What do you hear? Can you hear the bridge? Does it have a sound?" he signed with one hand. I heard the bridge sway but did not know how to sign the word sway; so my hands danced in lyrical hum to the hum of the bridge over the water. "Good you hear. I feel what you hear." He lifted me down to the ground from his shoulders. On the slope downward to Manhattan, my father's hands were animated. "This is my home. This is where I was born." His conversation went on, but I had stopped listening to his hands. I was plotting my solitary walk across the magic bridge. By now I was out of the circus. Although my eyes saw tigers leap through flaming hoops, clowns pour from small cars, elephants lumber, trapeze artists swing from one to an- ot her, I was back in the city with my father-his adored city. I walked alone on the bridge. Unafraid. Walking in the watery wind. There was no rain, just a sense of river wetness. I was young, happy. Later, when I was a college freshman, he said, "Ruth, come we take subway, we go to see a bridge where you run away, so long time ago." I had work to do, books to read, papers to write, but his love of the city, his possession of its streets and alleys, its bridges and subways, its filth and fever, separated me from my texts. In the subway, on our way to Manhattan's Lower East Side, the gateway to the Williamsburg Bridge, he struck his breast with his fist and signed, "This is my New York. This is alive city." He was uncomfortable in the country. He loved the broken asphalt streets and cracked concrete sidewalks. He knew the city's rustle, its motion. 91 "Listen!" he said. "I feel train coming. With my mouth I said, "I hear the train coming, Poppa." When we left the subway, we walked toward the bridge. 144 Ruth Sidransky He peered into stores, into people's faces, smiling. Before we reached the mighty span, he stopped, pressed h's back to a brick 1 1 wall and said, "I tell you small story I not tell you before." I was used to my mother's stories, but his were rare and I focused my eyes on his telling hands. "it is here where I run on the Williamsburg Bridge, before you were born. Momma sleep in the morning, we were married four days only, I know Momma worried when she wake up, but I must run on this wonderful bridge, back and forth two times. it is this bridge that you walk on, you were not four years old. We could not find you. You were gone. We call police. No one found you. But me, Ben, I walk to a bridge and I see you with my eyes, a little girl with a blue dress smiling at river, looking up high to top of great bridge. You love bridge like me. You love beautiful New York City, like me. You are real my daughter. I was not angry with you. I understand why you must go to the bridge." He gave me a gentle pinch and grinned his mustached grin at me. I saw a rat, shuddered and turned away, remembering the games my father played with us on cold winter mornings. On Sundays we snuggled under the quilt filled with goose down that he had made for us. One Sunday, when I was six, he was the first out Of bed, and with great ceremony he proclaimed, "Wait, I come soon, have interesting surprise for all family." He moved like a cat to the dumbwaiter that hauled the tenants' dally garbage to the basement. I heard him open the door, closed my eyes and slid under the pink comforter. My mother gasped for breath and pulled the comforter from my head. My father's voice said, "Take off blanket, I have some- thing for children today." I opened my eyes. He dangled a matted dark gray live I N S I L E N C E 145 rat over our heads. He laughed as he swung the rat by the tail. I was frightened. My mother pulled the quilt from our warm bodies, grabbed me with one hand, my brother with the other, and in one movement we fled to the opposite corner of the room. My father chased us around swinging the rat by its tall until my mother demanded, " Ben, throw away rat now!" He was undaunted. "Wait, look at rat I catch, good work. My hands so fast to grab big mouse." He shone with p 'de, parading the strength of h's hands before us, S' ri igning with one hand, holding the rat in the other. My mother glared at him. "Okay, I get box and put rat in a box, feed him foods later. I want to show him to people." The kosher butcher was open on Sundays and my fa- ther had a plan. He went to the closet, found an old shoe box, lined it with newspaper, dropped in the rat and tied it with heavy twine. "Hurry up, get dressed, we have breakfast and then we go out to show a big rat on the street." It was a cold morning and fresh snow powdered the streets of Williamsburg as we walked to the butcher. I re- mained behind him, uncertain of his pranks, ready to flee home to my mother, who refused to come with us. It was unusual for me to go to the butcher with my father; I had been there often with my mother, speaking for her, ordering for her. This time I watched my father lift his cap from his head and say in a clear voice, "Good morning, Mr. Roth." I heard laughter in his voice. His mirth went undetected by Mr. Roth's ears, untrained in the nuance of the deaf voice. But I heard it and backed off to the doorway. Mr. Roth pointed to the shoe box, tilted his head and with his eyes asked to see the contents. My father turned to me in the doorway, nodded, and 146 Ruth Sidransky asked with body gesture alone, "Shall I open the box?" h's face 'de with merriment. wi I lifted my shoulders, lowered my head, and shifted my eyes from his, refusing to be an accomplice to my father's prank. He lowered his eyes, telling me without sign or voice to be quiet. With great seriousness he untied the shoe box on the counter. The rat moved. In one motion he lifted the lid, grabbed the rat by the tail, and dangled it before Mr. Roth, who screamed , Get out, Benny, get out and take that thing with you! I stumbled out the door, afraid of the butcher's booming wrath, and slipped and fell in the snow. My father walked out slowly, holding the box in one hand and the rat by the tail in the other. As he approached me, I jumped and rubbed my scraped knee and tried to run. My father dropped the box and held me fast to him with one arm, the rat still dangling in his outstretched right hand. "You afraid of rat?" He smiled the words at me. His hands were occupied. I shivered, pulling away from the squeal- ing rat. He crouched lower. "Watch, we free a rat." Clutching its tail with his fingers, Benny set it on the ground, and let go. The rat remained still, staring at its captor, then turned and darted down the street. I let my breath out into the cold air and punched my father's thigh. I was angry, and frightened by his humor. He had publicly humiliated me. I would never go back to Mr. Roth's and order chicken for my mother. "No be angry, no shame. We play joke on Mr. Roth. Never mind, he cheat us sometimes, give us less meat weight, too much fat. I teach him lesson!" I relented and reached for my father's hand. He pulled his hand from mine and signed, "Poor little rat, will die from exposure. I N S I L E N C E 147 I looked straight at my father and with my own hands repeated the spelling of the word exposure. He repeated the spelling for me, letter separated from letter, and broadly signed, "You not know what mean word exposure?" "No, what does it mean?" I asked in full sign language. "You not know true?" he asked. I stared at him blankly. "I teach you new word I learn 'just last week. It mean rat, poor rat has no home, no foods, no warm place to hide. Too much cold, no heat, means rat will die." I stared at him. He was teaching me language. "Surprise, I know words you not know. Father Ben study every day learn new word." Summertime is the time of sharpest memory. In winter my father was covered in upholstery cotton and horsehair, worn with his day's work. But in the summer light and on summer weekends when the factory slowed its production of stuffed sofas and chairs, my father had time for us, time to take us on family outings, time to play and time to teach. Playtime meant new language games, new thrills and whooping ' JOY. In the summer when I was ten, we went to Toms River for days in the country; we took a bus from Manhattan, across to Newark, and down the highway until we reached the Toms River bus station. My father's sister Rose, with her laughing eyes and thick black hair, met us at the station and drove us to her house. It was perfect, set off the road, surrounded by trees and grass; there was no pavement, no sign of the city. The sun warmed my back and I was content. Rose bustled us into the house and then, without letting a moment pass, bade us all get into our suits for a swim in the river. Hurriedly I pushed my legs into my bathing suit. 1 148 Ruth Sidransky remembered my father's tales of his swim in the East River when he was a boy and now I would swim in a river. I asked my hearing aunt, "Are there any rats in Toms River?" She laughed. "No, Ruthie, this is a country river that winds through New jersey. There are no rats in this river, just cool water on an August day for a city girl like you." Down at the river, I put my foot in the water; the bottom was slimy and I hesitated. My father took my hand and led me into the water until it reached my waist. "Now swim," he signed. "Don't be afraid. I am here to watch daughter Ruth." I moved slowly off into the water and felt myself pushed forward by a river within the river; the current grabbed me and pushed me to the opposite side of the narrow bend. I was frantic, I had lost control. I called to my aunt. She was no- where in sight. Toms River rolled and I clutched at reeds as I moved through the water. I took a breath and shouted, "Help! The water is fast!" No one heard me. I saw my father standing on the bank, I raised my left hand. He waved back. I signed, "Help me, I drown." He signed swiftly, broadly, "Stay, hold grass." And he swam great breaststrokes toward me in the churn- ing current. As he came up for breath after each powerful lunge of his arms, his eyes fastened on me, measuring the distance, warning me calmly not to move. He reached me and in voice he said, "Hold my neck, Ruth." I flung my arms around his shoulders, locked my fingers around his neck, and piggyback as one body we swam, wet and close, to the riverbank. "You safe now. Brave girl." I cried, relieving myself of fear. He cradled me in his arms and crooned in his garrulous voice until I stopped trembling. We sat motionless in silence. I N S I L E N C E 149 "Ready now!" he commanded. "We go back to swim in a cool water." I refused. Gently he took me by the hand. "We swim together. I teach you not be afraid. You watch me, I teach you swim good." He pulled me into the water with him, laughing, saying, "Swimming time is good time." He splashed water over me, held me afloat and then suddenly let me go, pushing me into the deep water away from the current, swimming with me. He lifted one hand out of the water, signing, "See, you swim easy, water take your body, no work too hard, your body swim by self." He motioned me to turn back to the shore, and we 'de by s'de until he could stand; he grabbed me and swam si 1 1 tossed me into the air. "See no afraid, we make fun, we make good time." Out of the water, he demanded that we walk along the riverbank to look for treasure. "What we look for?" I asked. "We look for perfect stones, round, smooth." We walked with our heads down, searching the soil. "i found, I found!" he shouted. "I find a new penny." "That's not a stone, that's money." "That," he signed, "is people stone. People need money stones. I found a stone, mottled pink and black, perfect, flat faced, but when I turned it over it was scarred, uneven. "This is the life, perfect on one side, ugly on the other." He signed this deliberately. "Some like me, perfect outside, but deaf inside." It was a rare pronouncement. I felt his years and years of Silence, the silence of his life. I like the phrase "stone deaf." They say "profoundly 150 Ruth Sidransky deaf " now. Gone is the language that says "deaf and dumb." I do prefer "stone deaf "; stones may be mute, but they are warm in the sun, they feel soothing in the palm. It is a piece of the earth, attached to God. I do not know what the pedants mean when they write "profoundly deaf " to describe the person who has never heard a sound. Deaf is deaf and silence is forever. My father gave me many stones, even pebbles he found in the street, to turn over in my hand. "Stones simple, stones clear," he said. On the Saturday morning before we left for Toms River, my father sat me at the window and asked me to watch for the "knife sharpener." I was bewildered and asked him for an explanation. "You wait at window, open window and listen for bell to ring. He come every two or three months to sharpen people's knife. He walk with round wheel, big stone, he push his feet on pedal like Momma's sewing machine. Call me when he come. He is immigrant man from Italy, makes a living." I saw this man come down the street in rumpled gray trousers, singing, "Knives to sharpen, I sharpen knives!" I ran to my father, who was reading the paper in the living room, and pulled him to the window, signing, " Hurry, hurry, he is here. He will go away soon." Patiently my father took the knives from the kitchen drawer. As he collected the knives, he said clearly in sounded ", Get Momma's scissors om 1 words 1 from sewing box. Careful. Do not fall." He put everything in a brown paper bag and signed, "You take all this to man, tell him twenty-five cents to sharpen all things. No more. He understand you. Show him quarter first, then give him knifes." I walked down the steps slowly, afraid I might fall and stab myself, but even more afraid that the knife sharpener 1 N S I L E N C E 151 would be gone. He was there, in front of the doorway. I spoke as my father directed. The man did not answer me as I handed him the bag. I watched as he took each knife from the bag and honed it against the sharpening wheel. The sparks fell onto the sidewalk. I moved back, not wanting to be ignited. My skin stood up in goosebumps as the grating sound penetrated my head. I was mesmerized by the moving wheel, by the sound. He handed me the knives and held out his hand for the quarter wordlessly. I asked, "Can I touch the stone wheel?" He took my hand and put it gently on the hot stone. I felt the dying friction heat rise into the pads of my talking fingers. I pulled away. He spoke. "Don't be afraid. Give me your whole hand. Put it on. it will not hurt you. Feel the stone. Beautiful? Yes? It has a life. Warm life, stones have life." I asked, "Can stones hear?" He laughed. "Stones, hear? Only God can hear a stone." Head down, quarter paid, I walked back up the stairs thinking about his words. I thought, only God can hear my father Benny. I wanted to ask him, when he greeted me at the door and praised me for a task well done, if his silence and the stone's 'silence were the same. I didn't ask. I had no words to s' 1 ign my feelings. I was dutiful, without a voice, without parental awareness of me, the hearing child. I found no rest from the silence, yet I clung to it. It was my only solace, my daydream- ing place. It was a slender tie to the fantasy that I created. I was Pocahontas, the Indian princess attended to by my tribe; my ladies spoke to me in royal sign, a language reserved for the high born. I was Romaine, the shoemaker's daughter with her glorious singing voice, listened to by an audience. There was no self, no anger at silence, no rage at the inattention to the child that I was. There was no mourning for the caverns of silence, no mourning for the listening that never was. 152 Ruth Sidransky I didn't dare hear myself. It meant breaking an unforgiv- able taboo; to hear myself could only diminish my capacity to hear the others who needed me. My mother said, "I am help- less." My father said, "Take care of us." I did not ask, "Who wi 'll take care of me?" I was alone, walled in their silence and mine. Incommunicado. Blank. 1 'd, "I h'de My mother, ashamed of her silent voice, sal 1 myself." And I went into hiding. I hid behind the stone. It was the price of survival for both of us. Benny sensed my mood and refused to allow my distant reverie; he brought me back to the present, to Toms River. "Come, we go back, find Momma, Rose come soon with car, and we go back to house in country. We play baseball with family on grass. Okay?" "Okay," I signed the letters as he did, with fun in them. On the way to my aunt's house we stopped at a bakery. My father shoved me out of the car, signing, "We buy bread, we buy cakes, for family. Tell Rose I pay." I pressed my nose to the warm smells behind the glass counter. He pulled me by the arm. "Tell baker man, don't fool me, give me fresh bread. If not I bring back. Tell him my words perfectly, like I tell you." The baker said, "Can I help you?" to my father. "Yes," I said, quickly, "I would like a loaf of fresh white bread." My father eyed me, watching me, trying to read my lips, but I had turned my head and spoken rapidly, softly. He said, I "Tell man I want fresh apple pie, make today, not in voice , 1 yesterday." As we walked out of the door with our purchases, my father asked me, accusingly, "Why you not tell bakery man my words, perfectly?" "It's not necessary, Daddy, he does not want to cheat you." "You stupid." He banged h's fist on h's head softly I 1 1 in the sign for stupid. "You not understanding hearing ways, always try to cheat deaf." I didn't answer him. I was hearing. Who would trust me? His senses were sharp. "I trust you Ruth, you not cheat me, you good daughter." I didn't believe that his anger at the "hearing" ex- cluded me. On an afternoon when the summer's heat stilled the urban air and the wind sound rushed over the streets break- ing the summer silence, I asked my father, "Who makes the wind?" His hands whooshed repeating the wind song and he answered , God make the wind to broom the streets clean, to tear dead leaves from a tree. Now we watch high summer wind, rain will come to wash the streets. Wait here in a doorway. Rain sure to come anytime soon. Huddled on the narrow step of a dry-cleaning store, he held me to him, protecting me from the city's August wind. He pointed to the sky. "See black cloud hold water, hold thunder, hold lightning, when rain come we go quick catch one fat raindrop in hands. See how God water earth, one drop, then another drop and we have a wonderful cool rain." He beamed his smiling light at me. The rain came, a drop at a time, as he had promised. We stretched our hands out of the doorway, his large and firm, mine young and small, to collect the single raindrops. We stepped out and in that moment with our hands open the rain sluiced through our fingers, drenching us through. We ran all the way home. We shook our bodies, squeezed the water from our clothes. 154 Ruth Sidransky I tugged his sodden leather belt and asked with my hands, "Momma angry we very wet?" "'No, never angry, God made us to have a good time, to play in his rain." He knew the secret of play, of time off and time out. It was not passive play. It was exuberant. He did not complain about his silence. He used it for internal laughter, used it to think, to plan, to prepare his life. A small part of him, that part born with sound, knew me as a hearing child. Somewhere in the dimmest part of his memory he held sound and offered it to me. As we entered the apartment building, hand in hand, breathing hard from our rain run, he turned to me, releasing his hands for signed speech. "When you grow up, you go alone, like a wind, over everywhere, you make life yourself. You take hearing ears with you. "Look outside, heavy rain stop. We have more hot weather tonight. Maybe we sleep on roof. Come, we ask Momma Mary." My mother laughed when she saw us. "You so wet. Are you little boy Ben, why not wait until rain to stop? Take off all clothes. I find dry clothings for you." "Wait!" My father touched her shoulder. She turned to face his hands. "Wait, I promise to Ruth, if hot tonight, very hot, no air, all family sleep on a roof." My mother glared at him. "Not private, too many neigh- bors sleep on roof too. I do not like." When it was dark, I helped him push the mattresses up one flight of stairs to the roof. He had no need of my strength, but he enjoyed my presence, grunting with a feigned load; his strength was enormous. The families collected in their spaces. My mother insisted that we move Off, far from the doorway leading back down to the stairs. "I not want anyone see us or bother to us when IN S I L E NC E 155 they must go down to use a t quiet. We go to a corner, where 1 not one person bother us, see us to sleep the night." We complied with her wishes, and settled in for the long summer s night of open-air sleep. I could not sleep. I heard my mother snore gently, my brother was asleep beside me. I sat up. My father also sat up and beckoned me, sweeping the air softly with his hands, to rise and Join him at the roof's edge. He pointed to the sky, as if to touch the stellar constella- tions. "I know stars have names, all stars. I sorry not know 'lk names. Look up. See stars I'ke mi in a sky, looks I'ke street when milkman spill silver milk." I hushed him. "Daddy, not use voice, other people sleep, talk only with hands. I can see you. Light is bright from stars. " As I watched him for words, my ear was not listening. And the vibrating sounds of the night entered my skull. I turned from him, to steal the sounds of the night; I heard a low lion's roar rising from the paved street below. It was the hum of the hot city settling in, its last turn before sleep. Holding my father's hand, I moved one more step to the roof's edge, leaned my head over and saw silence. Black below, illumined by the stars above, the red brick five-story buildings stood facing each other down the long, long Bronx street. Sentinels in the night. We were not all walled inside. I saw the bodies stretched out in loose bedclothing, on 'led blankets, finally asleep. Only Benny and I mattresses or pi were awake. It was a dream for me to see everyone at rest, to have no one calling my name, to have no one ask, no one make a demand. My father receded from me, allowing me to be alone with myself. I tried to smear the stars together with my hands, tried to create a white night. I was busy with the heavens, happy. It was a night of bliss. Benny took my hand, led me to my mattress, lay me down, kissed me, covered me and left me to sleep the night. Summertime was the best time, the time when I had my 156 Ruth Sidransky father for long stretches, for hours of play. We went to Coney island. We went to the beach where the deaf collected in circles near the Washington Baths. I could see them as we approached over the hot sand, wending our way, creating a path through the bodies oiled to absorb the sun's rays. No matter what time of the morning we arrived, there were always people, throngs of people laid out on old chenille bedspreads, towels and sandy blankets. It seemed to me that only the deaf remained on their feet, gesticulating broadly, facing one another, speaking to one another. The same hearing people lay on the sand Sunday after Sunday during July and August and still they stared at the standing deaf signing to one another in full animated speech. The circle broke, the choreog- raphy shifted as new deaf arrived with their families. The children remained outside the circle. And my father, who loved to talk, to fool with the deaf with his clever hands, enjoined me to play with the other children, signing that soon he would come and take me into the wide ocean with him. He was my cohort. I made no demand, gave him the time he needed to be with his own people, speaking his own lan- guage, without paper and pencil, without struggling to have a hearing person understand his oral words. His silent signals made more sense than most of the inane speech I heard. I turned to my castle in the sand and made my magnifi- cent structure complete with moat and secret passages to great rooms that shifted in the heat. Suddenly I was lifted from my crouched position. I recognized the smell of his body and I grinned inwardly. He was going to take me to the sea with him. He pulled us all from our places and raced with me to the water. The foam hit my toes. I protested the cold water. He ignored me and pushed me into the ocean. It was dark; I could not see my feet as I looked down. He splashed me, threw water at my mother, grabbed my brother and tossed him into the water. IN S I L EN C E 157 He shouted, "i play with famely." People turned to identify this strange sound. I put up my hands to shush his oral speech. He was quick. "Never mind if people look at me. They not understand deaf talk. They see we have a good time. They jealous." 1 Joined his abandon and frolicked in the water. "See," he said, " now you swim, not like last summer when you were ten, when you almost drown in a Toms River." We grinned at one another. He nodded his head up and down in full approval. Come, we swim together, far away, not be afraid, I am with you. I watch you. Daddy Ben, good swim, many miles. Salt water help you." And for the first time I swam with him, my small breaststrokes paralleling his long ones. "You work too hard. Slide in a water. You can do that, can do all you wish." These words he said orally. I tried. "Put arms around my shoulder. We swim back together. You must kick feet, help me to swim too." When we came into shore, he said, "You good swimmer, brave girl. Later we go for rides on Coney Island Boardwalk. Present to you because you try hard to be a good swimmer, not afraid." I was afraid, but his courage spilled onto me, leading me beside him, protected. I fell on our old blanket, happy to be back on dry ground. I looked up at the perimeter of the signed hands dancing language and it had widened, and I looked again and saw a second circle of young unmarried deaf signing words I did not always understand. Each generation refined the lan- guage. I strained to understand. I asked my mother, "What they say?" She answered, "Many words, new words, I not know all new words from a Gallaudet College, I like spelling words best. Then everyone understand." My father reproved my mother. "Mary must learn new 158 Ruth Sidransky signs, new language. Make mind grow. We ask what mean new signs." He always asked, always wanted information. He needed language. And he gave it to me. A gift. I held a perfect thing in my hands: language. "We go dress now, we go to a Steeplechase ride. We go to Luna Park on Boardwalk. I have money extra, work overtime. "We go hurry, so we have ride in a daylight, then we go to Nathan's and I buy a hot dog for everyone for a supper. Momma no cook. Today is rest day for everyone." The great billboard-size mouth full of smiling teeth tow- ering over the entrance to Luna Park lured me with the unknown treats within its portals. Today we would all go. When we passed the park on the Boardwalk I saw the mechan- ical horses, looking very much like the horses on the merry- go-round, race on the track around the park. I heard the people on the horses screaming with feigned fear, I heard their thrill. And now Benny was taking me, taking all of us. Although we washed as best we could, I felt the salt cling to my skin, the sand between my toes. "Not important, not all clean from salt, we go have a good time." He would not allow me to ride a horse alone. He sat me in front of him, shielding me with his body; the switch was thrown and we raced (-)over the course. The wind caught my open mouth, and I screamed as I had heard the others shout. I heard my father scream but this time his shouts were mingled with the rest and I paid no attention to what the others might think of his sounds. I was riding the Steeplechase. I had seen the billboard clown face peer down at me every summer. It was painted with hair parted in the middle, slicked back, and a toothy smile framed with deep red lips. I dreamed about it at times, and I was afraid. I was fascinated, drawn to this wide open mouth. IN S I L EN C E 159 I forgot the mouth, I forgot the face. I was flying with my father on a wide grassy plain, talking to him, telling him my words. He heard me. The fantasy was over as we came down off the mighty brown steed. I heard him as he squeezed my waist: "Wonderful ' " He exhaled the words on one deaf breath. trip. He grabbed my hand, pulling me to the next ride and the next and the next. "No more money, now we go to eat best hot dog in world. We go Nathan's. Stay Close, very, very crowded. All people like best foods to eat there." I did not want to leave Luna Park, I did not want to leave the mechanical brown steed that Benny and I rode; I lingered. He cajoled , Come now, you come now, good time finished but you will remember for all your life this day." I walked beside him holding the day. I did not speak. I moved closer to him lest I lose him in the gathering crowd. The rhythm of the feet as the crowd rushed to the subway at day's end, the smell of grilled hot dogs and hot waterlogged corn on the cob, the scent of frying onions mingled with the sticky sweet pink cotton candy and the colors of the sea pushed me along, away from the speed of the horse, away from the thrill of the Steeplechase, away from my fulfilled fantasy. We moved into the crowd at Nathan's hot dog stand. The glass-topped counter, five feet from the wall and cov- ered with signs announcing the price of each item, provided a backdrop for the army of countermen shouting, "How many hot dogs over here? Any fries? Seafood over there in the rear. Cokes? Who's next?" Benny took my hand and with his other hand signed , You order for us, so busy here, so many mans here they not understand me. No patience to listen to deaf voice." I wriggled through the people lining the counter, chose a face from the men dispensing this pungent food, caught his eye, and softly, distinctly, I demanded, Four hot dogs please, lots of sauerkraut and mustard. And two sodas with four straws. The man, wearing a Nathan's white cap, slowed his rapid delivery, slowed the shove of hot dogs across the counter, and one by one handed me the hot dogs as I passed them to my family. How much is that?" I asked clearly above the din. Benny had the money in his hand, counted out, ready to pay before I signed the price of our dinner. "Give him money, tell him no change necessary. I count correct," he signed. The man behind the counter looked at me, looked at my father, at my mother, glanced down at my brother, and said, "It's paid for. Get out of here!" I repeated his words for my father. He nodded his head, tapped us one by one on the shoulder and moved us away from the people shouting their orders. "Hearing people fool sometimes, he feel sorry for us. So we have a free dinner." He laughed. "So, not so bad we deaf sometimes. And then he looked at me. "What did you say to that man?" "I 'just told him the order, nothing else." "You have good voice, Ruth, I see people listen you always when you speak. Do you have a magic in your throat?" "No, Daddy, I just wait to find the eyes. When I have the eyes, when people look at me, I know they ready to listen." He stroked my head. His hands smelled of sauerkraut and the sea. He shoved the last morsel of food into his mouth, looked at me once more and asked , " You think man lose his 'job because he give us free foods?" "No, Daddy, he is Nathan. I know he is Nathan the boss." "How you know that?" "I feel that," I signed. He did not question my feelings. "Now, stomach full, we go home on subway, when you tired you sleep on Daddy's lap." I moved close to him, touch- ing him, until we reached the subway station. That same summer, I talked to my gifted brother Freddie; he answered briefly and turned away, isolated and remote. These were the times when I was immersed in deafness for days on end. And when the days followed one another without relief, when they went on too long, I thought I would go mad. I was wild for spoken sound, for the exchange of contact through my ears. I found myself rubbing my ears. I turned on the radio, and heard words of Nazis marching in Paris. I longed .for the summer to be over, for school to begin again, so my mouth and my ears could partake of normal human conversa- tion. I kept this longing close to my chest, so close that my chest bones hurt. My father insisted, "Go outside and play with other children. Talk to young girls in your language." He al- ways knew. "It is Sunday, and everyone, all girls are away with their families." "We go to a park, take walk, we play father Ben and Ruth in summer sun time." He sign-sang these words. His voice resonated and I smiled at his sound. "Better see smile, school begin next week, September almost arrive, then have plenty to talk." He opened the door. "Come, we go out, listen to people talk, maybe we meet interesting person?" We went forth, always hand in hand. Silent. And then, with his eyes pressed to the street, he said, "Remember to look, to find something wonderful." 162 Ruth Sidransky This time I found a piece of green glass worn smooth by the city and I showed him my treasure. "Tell me story about green glass. Invent big story." I didn't need any prodding. My hands were alive with make-believe. "Long time ago, a rich man had a wine cellar. Inside lots of bottles of wine, down in dark place with spider web threads. Depression come, man lost all his money. He had one bottle wine left. He went into the street, holding his last wine, tight. Somebody try to rob him. He dropped bottle. This French green glass break into many pieces. Man heart- broken, he break into many pieces inside himself. He walk away and leave red wine and broken glass on the sidewalk. People kick this glass everywhere, from Manhattan to Brooklyn, over the bridge. And this is the last piece of glass from his wine cellar. He is dead now but this last piece of green makes us remember his story." Benny clapped. "Good story. Best!" he said with his voice. I felt better. "Come, park is here. I push you on swing, higher, higher, up you go to sky." I settled into the swing, balancing my eleven-year-old body, and gripped the link chain hard, readying myself for his powerful pushes. I went up higher and higher with each push. I screamed , "No more, enough!" I shook my head. Ben was caught in the rhythm of the push. He couldn't see my face, nor did be notice my head moving from side to side, expressing my fear. He pushed so forcefully that the swing went over the top. I never let go, although I knew I was upside down. The swing righted itself and my fingers were red, the skin broken from the metal links that I had clutched to prevent my fall. Fright- ened, but with his wits about him, he decreased the momentum IN S I L E NC E 163 of his pushing to avoid a sudden stop. I held on, white, after the swing came to a full stop. He pried my fingers loose, moved me over on the wooden seat and sat down with me. The swing swayed from side to side and his hands in full calm said, "You very brave girl, use your mind, not fall off. I proud of you." He was daring and expected me to have his daring. He signed, Now we have plenty conversations, we go home and tell Momma swing story." I was angry with him. He had almost killed me and to him it was just a story. September came and I was back in school. The summer was over. The days settled into a routine. Monday nights we had spaghetti for dinner. As we ate in silence, I remembered how I had signed the teacher's words under my wooden desk at school, trying to memorize them. In the summers I fell into the habit of signing to myself as I had seen my father do so many times. it was a facile mode of thought for me. I tried to break myself of the habit. I said words aloud, keeping my hands clasped on my lap under the table. I was concentrating, retraining myself, and I heard my father laugh. He sat on the kitchen chair, facing my mother's back as she scrubbed the evening pots, signing and laughing. I reached across the table, tapped him on the shoulder; he turned and I asked, "Why are you laughing?" "I think of something funny!" "Tell me! "No, it is not for young girl." He turned his back to me, and went on signing and laughing. I couldn't see his hands. He went into the living room, lay down on the rose sofa and fell asleep, signing, dreaming. I watched his dream-hands 164 Ruth Sidransky move, but averted my eyes from the meaning of his words. They were his, in sleep. Then, tempted, I read his words, but the signs were indecipherable. His hands were covered in whimsy and I didn't understand anything but the pleasure in his face. In the morning I crept to his room, wanting to catch him in sleep, trying to understand his dream words. I watched his hands play. I awakened him and asked, Daddy, tell me what you dream, what funny?" He opened one eye. "Do not wake me, not finish my story. You broke my sleep, tomorrow finish dream." "Will you tell me funny dream when you finish?" "Not always remember all dream. Maybe tell you if I remember." "Why you sign Daddy, when you sleep to dream?" "I sign? Not know that!" "Yes," I nodded. "Your Daddy funny man even when sleep?" 1, tool dreamed in sign. I awoke often with my hands formed in the shape of a word. When this happened I paused, warm with sleep, to think. My hands moved and before I uttered the sound in my hand, I hesitated, signing the word again, whispering it, to be sure I could say it. Hands and voice aligned, I spoke the word, my voice clear. 'II think 'n hands. The movement of silent words I still 1 1 1 is supple. The arm, hand, and wrist swing to language in one graceful motion. I do not allow my tongue to shuffle words without meaning. My hands are as primary for me as they were for Benny in his dreams. I flattened my nose against my bedroom windowpane and daydreamed with my hands. I was an Indian princess clothed in soft skins the color of bleached bone. I was a IN S I L EN C E 165 European princess with golden,hair plated 'n one brad down I the length of my slender back. My father came into the room and said with his voice, "Why you sign to yourself?" "i sign my dreams, same as you do." "Remember, you are hearing girl, you cannot be deaf and hearing at same time." I learned my father's lessons. There is no emptiness in silence. There are no intrusions, no exceptions to the mind at rest. And out of that rest came the perceptions of the child, asking questions, urgently demanding discovery of the un- known. I was gifted with the lingering curiosity of a child. it was Benny's blessing. Benny used his silence well. It was who he was. At times he saw the world as a crooked place, askew. He considered himself as one of the others, yet apart. His arrogance lay in the knowledge that he had not been born deaf, that he had had a chance at greatness, at great hearing and great learning. He did not isolate himself as my mother did, as I did. He lunged into the hearing community wary at first, and then with abandon mimicking himself, permitting the men with whom he worked to approach him without any shame or fear. They admitted him as a man, relieving the monotony of work, sharing their ribaldry with him. He said, "Never trust all. Sometimes men at work steal. But I like company of men, together we make money, fool around, tell dirty stories." He spoke of the men with benevolence, smiling at their 'd't'es, forbearing their d'sda'n of him when they called stupid 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 him "dummy," when they too roughly attacked his shoulder for attention. In a world of fools, of frightened men, his watchful eyes forgave the profanities against his silence. With an unbiased mien, he reserved 'judgment and turned from their 166 Ruth Sidransky malice. In a world of fools, locked in stillness, he was not the fool. He was pleased with himself. I was not. The twist in my soul was firm. My existence overshadowed by deafness was assuaged by Benny's laughter. Without it, I don't believe I would have survived. He was masterful, captivating. He lived alive, striding almost mystically to the subway, to his daily work. He talked to himself, thought to himself, signed to himself, he created himself. His language was fragmented; he wasn't. He was in possession. He owned himself. IN S I L EN C E 167 Eight BENNY AND RUTHIE Smoother than cream were the speeches of his mouth . . . -Psalms -55.,22 In winter, when the icy air hit my lungs and I gasped for breath, when the air was clean, when the snow fell on my face turning my clear cheeks red, my father took the sled from its corner in the closet and announced, half signing, half speaking, "We go for a ride in snow, before it melt, before it become black, dirty with people overshoes and gas from cars that fart on snow. "Daddy, don't say that, not nice words." "But real talk, hurry up. We have a Saturday snow, Ben not work today, we must go now. Early morning best time." Benny was rushing again, generating excitement, his power unmistakable. "Mary," he signed, "leave laundry, we go out now, breathe winter sun air." She smiled at him, touched his shoulder. "Who will make breakfast foods for you and children? You will come up hungry. And I must finish to wash clothes. Go take chil- dren, go play in snow. Save a little snow for me when I go out later." He touched her shoulder in return, chuckled and shouted to me.. "Dress up now, we go." It was a command from Benny, a command to savor life. 'The snow was locked in absolute whiteness. Nothing moved. There were no footprints scarring the pristine city snow. It was very early in the morning. The cars were tunneled in, their tires invisible. The building superintendents were still in their beds. They hadn't dribbled the residue of ashes left by the night's coal on the sacred white coat covering the street. It lay untouched. "You want to be first to step in snow, leave small foot- print with Daddy's big print from man's shoe?" I looked at him wordlessly. "You go alone, you young girl, you make own path, own way in white land!" I set off to mar the snow, to leave my mark before another entered this pure realm. I walked the length of the virgin street alone. It was my twelfth winter. The sun lifted from the east. It was a February morning. The Bronx was white. I tromped in the snow; I slid across the crunchy wetness; I listened for the sound of snow under my overshoes. I was too warm, over-sweatered, layered lest I catch cold. The hair clung to the back of my neck, damp with heat. I heard the clang of the ashcans as the first superin tendent came out of his basement apartment, tucked away in the alley, dropping the coal's excrement on my snow. I turned and saw my father waiting patiently for me at the end of the street. I ran to him, heart beating hard, slithering across the snow, stumbling in my race to reach him, to feel his love. He carried a piece of my soul in his hands. I L E N C E 169 When I reached him, he pulled me up into his arms, slobbered a kiss on my warm face and insisted, "Take off hat, take off gloves, too many clothings, not good. Give me hand, 'Is good snow. touch snow, soft, soft before another man spot Taste snow. Stick tongue out." Mocking him, I refused. "Open wide mouth!" he said as he swept snow into his hand from the car fender he was leaning on. "This better than candy bars, Baby Ruth!" I laughed at his play on words and opened wide and I heard the crystalline snow melt in my mouth. "Now," he said , now we ready to go for sleigh ride. We go to park, ride down hill. We go fast, faster than Steeplechase horses in Coney Island." I remembered the winters before and knew my father could be reckless. I was afraid of his speed, but knew if I clung to his neck I would be safe. I said, "You and Freddie go first, I watch you fall down a hill faster." My syntax had become his again. It was easier to speak that way; it conveyed a more direct meaning. My father handed me the worn rope tied to our old sled and said, "You pull Sied, watch tracks it make in a white ground." My nine-year-old brother sat on the sled and waited for me to pull him along. The sled careened at my first tug and 'lled Fred onto the snow. He shook himself off and signed, spi "You sit Ruth, I pull you." My father, annoyed, shook h' off and signed, "Do not sign, you are hearing children. I want see you talk with mouths to one another." In my father's presence we automatically signed, includ- ing him in our words. But Benny's anger bounded across the landscape. We succumbed to his wish and spoke to each other, omitting him from our speech once more. It made me uncomfortable but he took pride in watching his offspring speak. For him, it was a mark of success, an entry into another place from which he was permanently excluded. We reached the park outlined in white. The trees were thick with snow. And as we passed under a laden limb, my father shook the tree and the snow fell on our uncovered heads. He rubbed his hands. "A wonderful snow. God's snow cold good wet. He made us to have a pleasure in His na- " He pushed us onto the ground. "Now we have a r'de. ture. 1 Ben lay first on sled, then Freddie, then you Ruth on top. You are lightest person." We piled onto the sled, and in- stantly we were off down the hill screaming with glee. He maneuvered the sled around the bushes skillfully. When we got to the bottom of the hill, he rolled us off his back, rolling our bodies in the snow, wetting our faces and hands in the solid whiteness. The temperature kept the snow from thawing, and we played for hours. People collected in the park, gathering on the hill's crest. But we had already left our mark on the snow; we created the paths that others followed. "Too many people, spoil our fun, New York too crowded. We go home now, we have breakfast Momma wait for us." It was noon. We had not recognized the passage of time. We walked home swiftly in the soiled snow, pulling the sled behind us. My mother's arms were out the window, pulling in her frozen laundry, each piece stiff as she lifted the clothes- pins from the line stretched across the a ey. I touched my pajamas, still cold, and my hand left its print, softening the icy flannel fabric. My mother sensed human presence, turned around and asked, "Why you so long time away? Miss break- fast, now time for lunch. What is matter with you Ben, not think of hungry children?" "Children not hungry before, we have good time in beautiful snow, all quiet." "Help me finish laundry, you Ben fold towels, make IN S I L EN C E 171 warm with hands, not so stiff. Then we have a lunch for all family. Spaghetti lunch ready, I will warm up, put plates on table." My father turned to me, black eyes shining. "Snow is better than spaghetti, right Ruth?" "I am hungry now." "Well, hurry up to help me fold clothes and sheets and we eat so soon as finish our work." I trailed behind him, putting my mother's laundry in the drawers, pushing him with my hands. "Hurry up!" "Be a patient, work before eat!" It was a happy time, a cocooned time. The winter of 1941. The snow came again, heavy, coating the windows in sheets of white, one flake overlapping another. I rubbed the 'windowpane with my hand, breathed my warm breath against wi 1 the open spot, wanting to see the sky above, the street below. The wind pushed the whiteness in small hills against the win- dowsill. I couldn't see outside. My father came to help me see into the air. He rubbed the glass with his hands and still we could not see outside. "Winter special time, time to stay inside and tell stories." "You do Charlie Chaplin again, make show." "No, not now. Now I tell you real story of real people. You always listen stories Momma tell you her family. I tell you my story. You listen. You watch what I say. Interesting story." His fingers elongated the signs. "My family very smart in Russia, long ago. My mother's father, he was doctor to the Tsar. Had big family, rich man." I imagined the court, splendid, with jewel-bedecked men and women sliding across cavernous rooms, paying homage to the Tsar and Tsarina. I saw my great-grandfather advising the nobles, I saw him care for the ills of the courtiers. 172 Ruth Sidransky my father shoved my shoulder. "Stop to dream, listen what I say. Maybe he not a doctor, maybe he was man who make medicines for sick people, pharmacist, like drugstore man on a corner store. Maybe he was secretary to big Tsar. But sure, he was with the Tsar, big important man. Did he never get a story straight? I wanted to know why the stories he told me were incomplete, fuzzy, why I had to fill in the blank spaces; I was confused and he was clear. The 'fic detail was sorbed 'n the drama of his h ds. He speci ab 1 an manufactured what he did not know. And I never quite knew what was true, or how he embellished the truth. "All story true!" his hands insisted. "In Russia, like all places in world, people hate Jews." His hands opened at the thumb and forefinger, he placed them against his waist and banged his waist twice to make the sign for Russia. He did it once more, forcefully. "Russia not good for Jewish people, but my grandfather friend of the Tsar. He help him to escape to America. Big pogrom coming. "That's not true, why would the Tsar help a Jew?" "I have proof. Listen me. I tell you at end of story." I waited in disbelief for him to continue. He didn't use his voice, only his body, his hands. "The Tsar give to my grandfather many horses, I think forty horses, and he take a big boat, with his family, and horses in bottom of old wooden ship for many days, weeks, maybe months, took with him all his ten children, boys and girls, and boat went across ocean, over wavy water, till at last they reach Texas and my grandfather have horse ranch. But my grandfa- ther stupid with horses, not know how use hands for horses and big farm work, only know how use his mind." He had me believing him. His hands were convincing. I 'Iy lived 'n Canada? What is this asked , I thought your fami about Texas?" "Be a patient. I tell you." I N S I L E N C E 173 "My grandfather, he lose everything, all horses. But he still rich man, he take his by a boat, once more, this time to New York City. There he need to make money. Some smart people, they sell him Newark, New jersey." "Newark, New jersey?" "Yes, I tell you true story about my grandfather. He still 'd m , he buy all swamp land. He disgusted, again people stupi an 1 1 fool him." "Did you ever see a picture of him? Did you know him?" "No, I never see him, he leave for Winnipeg, Canada, to be near friends from his town. His name Moshe Katz, his 'fe name Rachel. You, I for my wi Ruth, are name for her mother Lizzie's mother." "Why didn't you see him?" I wanted to know. "Wait, wait, you mix up my story. He go north country, cold like Russia, and take with him all family, but not my mother. But he take with him pearls that Tsar give to him." "What pearls?" "The Tsar, he like Moshe Katz, and gave to him a reward for his work, pearls and horses. Horses now dead many years pearls still in my family in Winnipeg. I know this true, we talk of pearls often. Maybe one day family break up pearls and you get two pearls, one for each ear. I wish this. For earrings, for pretty ears. Your ears and my ears look the same; stick out from head, but your ears smaller and hearing ears. Yes, I shall write a letter to family in Canada and ask to give you two pearls from Tsar's necklace. You named for Rachel, and you shall have Rachel pearls from my grandmother." My father's letters are famous. The family has saved them. He wrote as he spoke, not in the language of spoken English, but in the language of the deaf transposed to written words. It was awkward. At times his language was incompre- hensible to the hearing reader unaccustomed to his deaf thought process, but it was his language, striking at the essence of meaning. k "Don't worry on me, I write a letter! My cous* in w ho has pearls will understand what I say, what I mean. Be sure, I write correct letter." Why," I asked , not your mother have pearls?" "This is other long story. Some in family say my mother only eleven years old when she marry my father, some say she thirteen years old. My father Morris, he was thirty-four years old, with two children, Dora and Sam, when he marry my mother. His first wife, she die when she have third baby, baby die too. "My mother Lizzie, she work for my father Morris in his cork factory. She was young girl, maybe they love, maybe he need her, nobody knows. But my grandfather, Moshe Katz, angry, very angry, take his daughter to a courtroom. He tell judge she too young to marry, under age, not allowed to marry so old a widow man. My mother, she lie, she say she is Old enough, she is fifteen years old, ready to marry. Court judge believe her so she marry my father. "Her family leave her, go away to Winnipeg, she never see her father again, he never let her in his house, to death." My father paused. His hands stopped. And he said to me 1 "You understand my family history?" n voice, 1 " Yes, it is a sad story." "Not finished story. I tell you more. My mother alone in New York, all family gone and she have two big children as stepmother. I think Dora was eight years old and brother Sam twelve years old, and my mother maybe only thirteen, most fourteen years old. Maybe really eleven years old. Who knows truth? My mother and father have their own baby, a boy, Bernard. He die. Then I born, I become sick at two years old, my health dropped down and I am blind with meningitis. Nobody know I have only weak eyes, don't believe I was blind, just poor eyes, not follow people with eyes. But nobody know I am deaf for long, long time. My mother leave me on a bed on big oak table in kitchen room to watch me all the IN S I L EN C E 175 ay while she work to cook foods for big family. My mother d I 1 tell me, 'God punish me because I marry your father.' You think God punish my mother because not obey her own father? Make baby Bernard die, make me deaf?" "No, Daddy, I don't believe, life sometimes run that way." We are speaking deaf words, one to the other. "Once I see a picture of me, I was little boy, I sit on my mother's lap. She told to me that it was a snap photo of us in Winnipeg. I think my grandfather must be in grave, dead. I know my mother miss her family. She lonely long time, so she have big family, many children. She had ten children: Bernard born before me first; then me, deaf son; and many sisters, Anna, Rose, Sylvia, Frieda, twin girls Mildred and Pearl, twins die as babies, diphtheria, and last baby brother Irving. Only seven live whole life." His eyes focused away from me. He was remembering without me, his thoughts concealed. "Never mind past, it is all gone, sometimes I think it is better to forget, then I tell you no. Better to remember, every person on earth has story. I tell story to my daughter, you Ruth tell to your children, then no life is lost and all remember all people. This is the life. Past must be to know. Help life to live, important to children who come in family later, maybe hundred years later. My father never tell me about his family. I know nothing. He is absent man on earth. I remember little of him, only he not sign much, not talk to me, but he help me to find 'job when I leave school. And he love your Momma Mary better than his own daughters. He sign to me all his girls stinky, but not Mary. You remember my father?" I remembered him, tall, hollow cheeked, gray; I remem- ber him as a disheveled, dirty, wordless man. When I was five he took me by the hand to his apartment on the main floor of the brownstone we shared. He put his index finger over his 176 Ruth Sidransky lips admonishing my silence, my vow of secrecy. He led me to a large oak closet, pulled a huge ring of keys from his bulging pocket and opened the door. I stood before his trea- sures. Each shelf was 'crammed. jars of food, Oriental enamel vases, brass bowls and stale rye bread wrapped in newspaper littered the top shelf. Half a dry salami, herring in cream sauce with onions floating in a chipped crock, and a small keg of sour pickles and sour green tomatoes and garlic buds shared the next shelf with open boxes full of buttons in all colors. And on the bottom shelf, next to open boxes of needles and thread, were squares of glossy cardboard on which he sewed buttons for my grandmother's pushcart and a pair of used roller skates. I was awed by his stored wealth. He handed me the skates and a skate key. I didn't move. Was this for me, from a man who never spoke to me? In 'silence, he motioned me to sit down on a kitchen chair- he bent 1 1 , over and put the skates on my shoes, took the rusted skate key from my hand and tightened the skates. He lifted me out of the chair, held me, balancing me on wheels. He pushed me gently, and I slid across the uneven wooden floor, stunned by my sudden speed. He grabbed me as I fell, pulled me up and walked me to the door. He held my hand down the steps, put my free hand on the iron railing leading to the street. In the street, he walked me on the skates. Then he let go, pressed the skate key into my hand and shoved me off. His face turned into a small smile as he walked away. We never spoke. I never said thank you. Did he think I was deaf too? I recounted this memory for my father. He signed, "Strange man, Morris my father. He did same to your Momma Mary when we 'just marry." "He gave Momma skates?" "No, he gave Momma herring from same closet when all family go to work, when no one stay at home. Momma say most delicious herring in all world, she taste. IN S I L E NC E 177 "Before he old and no can work more, he find me a trade. But before that time, when I . was young boy I work hard for my family. We live in Water Street and every morning early, before family wake up at five o'clock in mornings, I put wood and coal together in a stove to make fire for family in winter- time. I was good boy. "I help my mother Lizzie by washing and sweeping floors every day. I think myself a female sister sometimes, probably a fool, no sense. They use me too much? You think I have a fool sense?" A fool sense? No, not a fool. Not Benny, not my father. "i like help everybody. I wish give you million dollars. Work hard, too hard not good. Have money, then you free person, do things to enjoy a life." "When I was a boy need money to go to movies. I look for work with sanitation department men who sweep streets clean from horseshit and dirty papers. The supervisor of sanita- tion men gave me piece of paper, list of hot meals to buy at grocery store for working men. I get tip, two cents sometimes. So I go look for hearing or deaf boys who had few pennies to share. If a boy had three cents and I had two cents, then we had one nickel, enough for two boys to go to movies. I do this often, to share with other boys so we both have a pleasure afternoon at movies theater. "When I was older, bigger boy, I had plenty free times. But I grow up. I want earn my own money. I quit a school when I am sixteen. My father tell me to stay at school, he sign writing in his hands, he push hard to tell me to stay at school. I was sixteen years old, I leave a school to learn life outside, to earn my own money, real money, not tips like errand boy for men who sweep garbage. "Near to our house, few doors down at 1 10 South Eighth Street, was upholstery shop. My father take me there to ar- range to learn a trade for me. I there work for two months, 178 Ruth Sidransky apprentice boy to learn without a pay. Later many years, my sister Anna tell me that my father give to sho p owner eight dollars a week to pay me salary. I never receive. My father kind like me but talk to me little. I sorry that. Not know who is my father. "i go to work in funny clothes for today. I wear knickers and high leather shoes. I wear lisle stockings, black stockings, girl stockings belong to one of my sisters. But no one laugh, no one know. In this time I strong, smart. I enjoy to work, learn trade, learn fast. In third month, owner pay me himself ten dollars a week. In fourth month I make twenty-one dollars. I work there for one year until union delegate come. I have raise tc) twenty-six dollars and fifty cents each week. I work good, perfect, never mistake, very neat. "Still not enough money. Myself, I go to union office, write notes to delegate on pad with pencil, look for better place. Make thirty-one fifty a week, then later forty-five dol- lars in shop on Broadway and Twelfth Street in Manhattan, New York City. I know how to fight for myself, talk better than my father. I get what I want. Deaf, very smart. "People tell me big whale stories at work. Want me lend money. I not believe them. Not listen. Let them think what they want. I know real world. I learn more good lessons every day, learn new words, understand language and money." I was no longer present for him. Like my mother he went on in his own hands, not to tell me his story but to tell himself, to remind himself that he was Benny. IN S I L EN C E 179 ; i i t r IF d , Part Three GROWING UP HEARING -- - , .- --_- I I Nine CHILDHOOD LOST Say not: I am a child; For to whomsoever I shall send thee thou shalt go, And whatsoever I shall command thee thou shalt speak. Be not afraid of them . . . -Jeremiah 1:6-8 One winter's day in 1936 my father Benny rode the bus to Philadelphia. Cornered by the Depression, desperate, he went to his hearing brother to borrow money. Irving, young, without cash reserves, unable to help, turned my father away. Almost fifty years later, Benny bit down, gently, on the nail bed of his index finger to show me how he fought the tears in his brother's presence. My father was thirty-three years old; Irving was not yet twenty. Perhaps Benny believed that sound 'provided money. His hard white, hands still strong, he signed, 1 1 "i left home, love brother Irving, ashamed to ask so young a boy. I cry, each eye cry a tear. Big. I do not know what I must do for family foods. I think of Ruben who jump from roof. Not me. I have family." He touched me, pausing in memory. "I leave to come to New York again by a bus. I sleep not in the night. Next morning I get up from the bed early, at the milkman's time. You, Freddie, Momma still sleep. I go down, follow milkman, and when he is away from truck, I steal two bottles milk to give my children foods." My mother's hands gasped, "Ben you never told me before that story." "I not tell you everything," my father said, dropping his hands into his lap. "Do you remember," my mother shouted at him, hands flying, "I find five dollars on a street in big pile of snow, same day you come home from Philadelphia?" "Yes," my father nodded, " we had plenty money for foods all week. Some left over." Credit fed our family. In those years we were always behind in our payments to the butcher, the grocer; each mer- chant thumb-licked the frayed pages of the neighborhood's financial status; each merchant determined how much credit to extend, when to withdraw. When our payments to the butcher exceeded the unspoken allotted amount, it was cut off, resumed again when partial payment was made. When we moved from Brooklyn to the Bronx my father left a debt of four dollars and forty-four cents at the butcher. A year later we visited the old neighborhood and my father saw Mr. Roth, the butcher. He signed, "I am afraid butcher punch me in the nose, so I carry you Ruth, fast down street, the other way." He laughed. But I didn't. By the time I was seven, I became part of the credit ritual, aware of counted pennies,. skilled in food trade. I could speak fluently. There was no need for pointing, no need for handwritten notes. My mother did not know that 184 Ruth Sidransky my short journey to the grocer's was a dangerous one, all for a quarter pound of sweet butter. izzy the grocer had a small domain. The store was crammed with food that fed the street in the days before the supermarket. His wife Sara and his two sons ran the Dawson Street store; it was safe to enter when his family was there. When Izzy was there alone I waited outside until another customer arrived, but it didn't always happen. Then I walked in alone, my breath silent. I had to do my mother's bidding. She flashed her hands at me, cajoling, "You go down and tell him we need butter, tell him mark it down in the owing money book." My mother reminded me as I opened the door, "Tell him we pay him what we owe, tomorrow or Saturday when Daddy Ben gets a pay." Was the butter eighteen cents? Our food was purchased daily and the money was doled out dally by my father, the guardian of cash. I walked into the grocery store. The butter sat creamy rich in the center of the large glass-enclosed refrigerator; there were two tubs, one of salt butter, the other sweet. I could smell it over the dried beans and peas, sitting in rolled burlap sacks on the floor; over the crinkling cellophane of the balloon- dotted Wonder Bread on the counter. Izzy had receding red hair and dark freckles, and wore a large white apron. I watched those hands lift the side of the apron and then wipe a soiled buttered hand across the face of his abdomen. I stiffened with resolve, with fear, wanting to deny the price he extracted for spooned sweet butter. Still and solemn, I let izzy take me to the back of the shop, a small dark area where he kept his accounts, new stock, and fresh eggs. "Let me show you how to candle eggs. I have large ones today." The store was empty, his wife was not there nor his sons; IN S I L E NC E 185 not one son for protection from th's man. Steeled and let, I let him stroke me and find the baby genitalia with adult fingers and hands. Hands were meant to speak, not to hurt. A voice broke through the curtain. "Izzy, are you there? I need a quarter pound Swiss cheese and two onions. Izzy, where are you?" He put his hands over my mouth and cautioned silence. I was silent. Frightened. As Izzy was waiting on his customer, I slipped from behind the curtain and said, "I was here before Mrs. Garabedian, I was Just in the bathroom." I turned to Mrs. Garabedian. "I hope you don't mind, my mother is in a hurry." Firmly I addressed Izzy: "Don't you have my mother's butter yet?" The child molester, the grocer, put my mother's package in a small brown bag and sent me off, knowing I would be back before my father's next payday. But I had escaped with the butter and my body for the moment. Did my mother pay the same price? Did my mother send me instead of going herself? Or was she so ashamed of her deafness and her lack of money that she sent her mouth and her ears, me? Or was I bad? Had I done something wrong? I was never sure. I turned for solace to my pen, and in another year I wrote a poem that I titled "No Self." When I was young, Freud was unknown to me. He might have helped when I lamented: Cross eyed crossfaced little girl Sad, bad little girl Eared, heared little girl Give me your ear Give me your voice 186 Ruth Sidransky Give me your tongue, your mouth I gave you life Your life is mine I did not have ears I made a pair Be me, he me, be my dream Be me, sad bad little girl You are lost and I am lost I love you for you are mine Little girl, little girl I found my own path to mourning. When I was alone, I veiled my fear; I had an empty dead face. In public I sparkled. By the time Izzy the grocer made contact with my heart and body, I was cemented into a pose that hardened with each passing year. I learned the art of pretend and practiced it to near perfection. I read fairy tales and assumed new personalities. I read comics and pranced full-breasted in my imagination. I chose pretentious names for myself. Within a single week I changed my name from Dixie to Russell and back again to Dixie. Ruthie was too plain. Ruthie described someone I wanted to shun. I converted dreams to reality, reality to dreams. I was a comic-strip figure, a curved blond female named Dixie, with no past, no future, a line drawn into the present, into the dally newspaper, to be discarded into each day's garbage. Exchanged words appeared in carelessly drawn shapes over the heads of the cartooned heroines. I rejected Dixie; she was 'silly. Perhaps I should be the Dragon Lady with slanted eyes, Chinese silk brocade gowns, hands clasped together, hidden by long sleeves, nostrils arched, dispensing cruel commands. Or a lady detective. I N S I L E N C E 187 it was safe to sink into another. I lied openly in the classroom. When asked to tell about our backgrounds, our parents and grandparents, I boldly volunteered to be the first to speak. I was nine years old when I walked to the front of the room and said before thirty ", I am descended from American Indian tribe. My children an 1 great-grandfather came from England and was a pioneer with Daniel Boone, in Kentucky. There he met my great-grand- mother and married her. That is why I have such dark hair." I was delighted with my charade. Although my teacher smirked at my recital, I did not know her kindness. She never mentioned my historical confusion. And no one knew my deaf secret. I would not see the tragedy of deafness; I would talk of nothing but pretty things. I rejected my soul's longing to be like other children. I believed that there was only one side to a coin, the fair side. I never dared turn the coin over; the dark soundless void, I knew, would make me mad. I couldn't countenance madness. Instead, I grew lovely and gay. Blessed with my father's passion for life and my mother's looks I passed for a whole person. No one entered the withered side of my being. Not even me. My mother glimpsed my sadness and her remedy was play. She loved fun. Up, up went the arms, the two middle fingers of each hand banded by imaginary thin leather straps, clicked down and she snapped her castanets, tossing her head into flamenco frenzy. "Come play, we are gypsies now. I teach you dance like gypsy girl! We have good time now." She swirled to Freddie and handed him two tablespoons; she raised a finger to me and said in full voice, "One minute, " She lifted a tambourine from the table and your turn soon. 1 1 shook it in the air. It was the dented lid of her stewing pot. "We make music now. You, Fred, are boy, you play 188 Ruth Sidransky drums on table with spoons; you, Ruthie, sing with girl's voice. And I play drum with bells and dance." She lifted her skirt to her knees in haughty gesture, tossed her head again, shook her tambourine and in one bold strike and voice conducted, Begin now." Freddie banged with his spoons. I opened my mouth to sing a tuneless song. I could not sing but did not tell my mother. But Mary, my mother Mary, was the star performer. She strutted and stomped with Spanish gypsy fire in perfect cadence. Her ebullient joyousness erased the nocturnal silences, but not Izzy the grocer's vile hands. I sensed my mother's solitude at the window. When her day's housework was done she sat framed by the window meditating, in repose, resting her face on her hand, gazing unobserved at the people in the street. She studied their faces, their gait, their clothes with heightened acuity until I came into view. Momma was always at the window waiting for my return from school, waiting for her family life to begin. "Momma, what do you see in the street every day?" "i see people, I understand their lives, what they do, why they are happy, when they are sad. I like to see a rush of life in the street." "It is raining today, no one is in the street." She looked at me surprised. "There is rain to watch." I looked at the rain with her, my school books still in one hand, and thought my own thoughts . . . _It is raining. And the lightning cracks. The thunder comes and no one hears it but me. She does not cower in fear. She loves the sight of the 'jagged light across the visible sky. I want her to hear it. I want her to feel my shock and momentary fright. Momma has her face up to the sky waiting 'ke of light. The walls reverberate with over- for one more stri 1 1 head thunder. Her lower lip trembles and her eyes light with IN S I L E NC E 189 the sky. She says, "I feel thunder, I hear thunder." She does not hear it; feeling is not hearing. it passes through her as it passes through the walls. Only I hear it, huddled inside myself. She caught my thoughts. "Don't worry, I see plenty. Never mind I do not hear thunder. It is big thrill to feel heavy noise." She kept her windows sparkling clean. When I saw her 'inside the window, five floors up, holding herself to sitting 1 1 the window frame with one hand, scrubbing away the city's grime with the other, I held my breath in silent prayer: -Please God, don't let Momma fall. I rushed up the stairs, anxious not to startle her, yet wanting desperately to hold her knees to the wall inside the apartment. She scolded me when I did this: "I not fall, I know how to hold myself." She washed the windows with clear vinegar and water, and squeaked them to a shine with a discarded copy of the Daily News. When the window shone, she raised the sash and slid from her unsecured perch on the window ledge into the "See," she said, "I am safe." apartment. 1 "Momma, why do you wash the windows outside7 Inside is good enough." "No, not good enough. Window is my art, my painting to world. To see art, windows must be clean." On wintry Sundays, she hurried us into our coats and warm gloves, insisting that we wear hats, and took us to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue. We feasted on and Canaletto, Rembrandt and Vermeer. She stud- led the names of the artists and the paintings, forgetting them from one Sunday to the next. She did not know art history but she moved unerringly from masterpiece to masterpiece. She pulled me by the hand across a room laden with treasure. "Come," she beckoned, "see this painting, see how the artist paint. 190 Ruth Sidransky My father did not have time for learning in the years when I was young. He worked sixteen hours a day when he could get work, and when there was no work, he scoured the neighborhood and found work here and there that would put money in his pocket. "You look at art with Momma; you tell ", he signed. me beauty later I wanted a telephone but did not ask for one. Whom would I call? Nonetheless, it was my heart's desire. I loathed public telephones. I did not like relaying messages, however urgent, for my mother and father. Early one evening, my mother gave me a nickel and asked me to call my father at a small upholstery shop where he had found temporary work. I went to the corner candy store, where three telephone booths were clustered together in the darkest corner of the shop. As I walked into the shop, past the magazine racks, past the sour smell of unwashed ice cream dishes, the owner of the dank emporium greeted me with his usual remark: "Still don't have a phone?" I kept on walking, repeating my mother's brief message to myself. "Please tell your father's boss to tell Daddy Ben to come home early tonight, no later than ten P.M." I hated going into the booth, closing the door and smell- ing the bodies that had been there before me. The heavy black receiver through which I listened and the mouthpiece through which I spoke were soiled objects. I dialed the number my mother had written on a piece of scrap paper. After the second ring a man's voice said, "Hello." "Is this the Westchester Upholstery Shop?" "Yes, what do you want?" "Are you the owner?" "Yes, what do you want?" the voice insisted. "I don't have all day." I N S I L E N C E 191 "I have a message for Mr. Sidransky, from his wife, my mother." "i don't know any Mr. Sidransky!" He was annoyed. "His first name is Ben. He is my father." "Listen girlie, I don't have time for this. I'm busy." "He's deaf." I gave my father his worldly definition. "Oh," he responded with recognition. "You mean Dummy. just a minute, I'll get him. Why didn't you say so in the first place?" I don't remember the rest of that conversation. All I remember is the word dummy. It reached into my ear, into my skull, through that black phone. No hearing person had used that word in my presence before. I heard my parents described as "deaf and dumb" all through my childhood. I took great pains to explain to anyone who would listen that although they were deaf, they were not dumb, nor were they mute. I wanted to shriek into the phone, to that faceless voice, "You are a dummy! You are hearing and dumb!" I did not speak the words. The anger and shame coursing through me at that moment crystallized into resolve. I was determined that no one would ever call me or my father by that name again. I learned whatever was set before me and I taught my father whatever I could, whenever I could. When other girls played house, I played school and I was always the teacher. I asked my father the next day, "Why do you let your boss call you Dummy?" He shrugged, his nostrils still full of cotton from the shop. "I tell him my name is Ben. I tell everyone my name is Ben, but they call me Dummy. It is easier for them. They remember me." I was enraged. "You are not a dummy. You are my father and a smart man. Tell them over and over that your name is Benjamin." 192 Ruth Sidransky He smiled wanly, tired with the long day's work. "It is all right. I know I am not dummy, that is enough." It was not enough for me. I became gluttonous. I read the dictionary every night, absorbing language, and taught the language to my father. I discarded my old make-believe words. He was insatiable. He and I had purpose. Our minds melded in study. "I glad you teach me. I work hard. To learn new things make me happy." His struggle was not ennobling. There was no advantage to it; there was no joy, no beauty, no fulfillment. It was boring work to keep our mouths fed, our bodies clothed and the rent paid. Yet he was the consummate craftsman, proud of his dexterity. I stopped hanging my head. I walked with a firm stride, my head high. I was eleven years old. I put aside my world of pretense, denying my fairy tale existence. I chose another path; the path of academic excel- lence. The attitude grew quietly within my child's chest, year after year stunting my emotional growth. I prepared to show the world that I was no "dummy." "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never harm me." I repeated the refrain to myself, almost prayerfully, to eradi- cate the hateful word. When I walked along the streets I traced the word DUMMY on soot-laden cars with my index finger, and then with a swift swipe of my hand I erased the word from my sight. I wrote the word in my notebook in pencil, across the surface of the page, tore it out and crum- pled the defamation into a ball. I sat in the classroom after the insult and lost days of learning until my father prodded me with his quest for knowledge. He reawakened my thirst for language. In our mutual hunger to have words feed us and connect us to the hearing psyche, we resumed study. His primary passion involved clear I N S I L E N C E 193 thinking and comprehension. When I was in doubt about a concept or a word that I was teaching him, he said, "You must ask the teacher again. Must be clear." The sign for the word clear is a revealing one. The fingertips of each hand are Closed, forming a small circle, the two circles join as the tips of the fingers touch, and then the hands are opened wide permitting light to enter. It is a sign of illumination. Clarity becomes the epiphany, the moment of knowing. The sign takes but a second to execute. Knowledge alone was not what my father sought. It was the process, not the product, that thrilled him. He taught me the art of knowing and the art of questioning. If I didn't understand the teacher's response to a question, he assumed that I had asked the wrong question. He said, "You smarter than teacher, you ask another question and another, make sure teacher know what you ask. You teach the teacher." And so I became a teacher, skilled at communicating. I learned the art of presence from my father; I was present at my own learning and present when I taught him. I questioned my teachers until I understood every facet of their teaching. it made no difference whether the teacher was inept or master- ful; each had a gift for me. My teachers were flattered by my rapt attention and they responded with verbal attention. I loved my teachers. I manipulated my own behavior to achieve their nurturing words. Each woman teacher was a parent, stroking me with audible words of praise. I both loved and loathed the praise; they praised my mask, not me. I had been rubbed raw by pain and had never named it. My elemen- tary school teachers recognized this and tended me carefully. The 'jolt came when I went to junior High School 60. I had so many teachers in one day-one for English, one for French, one for math, one for history-that I was unable to find one single comforting teacher. I was 'just another face in 194 Ruth Sidransky the incoming seventh grade. There was not enough time in a fifty minute class to develop a relationship with a mother- teacher. When we changed classrooms, we were ordered to walk the halls in silence or get a demerit for speaking. I was horri- fied. How could they punish anyone for speaking to people who can hear? My new world was hideous. I traveled the black halls winding in silent roads from room to room, from one aging gray-haired teacher to another, sat locked in classes that had been taught at the turn of the nineteenth century. My English teacher, a tiny, shriveled martinet, sent terror into my soul for a dangling participle or an incorrectly parsed sentence. What did she know about living language? There was nowhere to breathe and I went into deep emotional hiding. I became ill. in that first month of school, I retreated to my bed and spent a week in lethargy. The pressure had become too great for me to bear. I stepped back into my abandoned fantasy, fondling my childhood in fairy- tale sustenance. I was reaching for someone to understand me as I understood the young princess who was banished because the king, her father, did not understand her innate goodness. After years of exile the princess and the king were reconciled. There was a happy ending, as there was in every fairy tale filled with trial, and I wanted a happy ending for my own life. The wounds of the week healed and I returned to school; forged my path once again. I centered all my energy into my intellectual life. It was a gargantuan effort that hid me from me by day. Carefully tucking away my fear of the unknown, I entered the cloistered life of the dedicated student, absorbing the words of others, denying my own. My mind was rapacious and grew rampantly, but there was a part of me that remained isolated. My family treated me like a prodigy. I heard them say IN S I L EN C E 195 in whispered corners, "Isn't R.uthie remarkable?" They patted me on the head like a smart dog who performs faultless tricks. I said nothing. I was incapable of publicly identifying myself. My hearing aunts and uncles only saw my passive smile. I continued to hoard words as a miser hoards gold. I collected books and saved them, saved the words that would make me full, that would make me like the rest. At times I went hungry as a child. My father said, "Do not eat all dinner, we must save some for tomorrow." We always had food but Benny lived in dread of the day when there would not be enough to feed us. Once food was con- sumed it was gone. I couldn't consume the words on a printed page. The words could be saved, read and reread. My hunger transferred to my books and as an adult I transported books, across the Atlantic Ocean, across the American continent, sev- eral times, never rereading them. I put my books on a shelf, dusted them, and sighed in safety. I had my words with me. They were the reflection of my childhood. They dispelled my grotesque nickname: Dumbo. I recolled when I heard that word. I made every effort to ignore it, until the taunting became worse than the sound of the word. My skin crawled and I turned to the enemy and said in even distinct tones, "My name is Ruthie." And the words came, "Fly away Dumbo, take your dumb floppy ears and lift off into the sky." My ears were small, shaped like tiny flat teacups. I wanted them out of sight and out of range of the verbal abuse that struck me. I hid my ears behind my long dark hair, hoping that one day they would be perfect. Even more, I wanted a telephone of my own, I wanted to call my friends and have them call me. I asked my mother for one, and she said, "Ask your father." And he said, "What for, you don't need telephone, go down to candy store and make calls to your friends. I give you five cents." I explained 196 Ruth Sidransky that people could call me at any time, that I could be part of the world, connected to everyone. He was adamant and closed the conversation. "Not need phone. Too much money." I felt stripped, unable to make him understand what I needed, unable to make the hearing understand what I needed. in the stillness of denial I repressed my urgent need and waited for a telephone until I was fifteen. I lied about my age and got a part-time job selling books at Macy's at 34th Street on Broadway at Herald Square. I passed their version of a literacy test and was surrounded by books on Thursday nights and Saturdays. I earned seven dollars a week before taxes and saved the money to pay for my telephone. When the phone was installed in our living room my father asked, "Does it work? Call someone!" I called the operator and asked for the time of day. My mother laughed, "Can't you call a real person?" "I don't have anyone's phone number, but I will get them and call everyone." We sat down and wrote postcards to everyone we knew, announcing the birth of our new phone. And I thought of Alexander Graham Bell, who had invented the phone to help the deaf hear. Only Freddie and I could hear it ring. I gently rubbed the phone with my hand and felt its connective power. I could speak through it and receive messages through it. It was a miraculous instrument. My mother reveled in its strength. If she happened to be dusting the phone when I was out and it rang, she picked it up and said, "Ruthie not here, call back tonight." When I got home she excitedly told me that there was a telephone call. "Show me how you answered the phone, I said. She put the speaker to her ear and the receiver to her mouth. We practiced until she got it right. Delighted with her new skill, she said, "See, I use phone like hearing people." IN S I L EN C E 197 She was never able to use the phone and receive messages 'I the advent of the TTY. The TTY 's a telecommunicator 1 that uses both a typewriter terminal, which looks like a toy, on which messages can be typed and read in the space above the keyboard, and the telephone handset, which is cradled onto the top portion of the typewriter. Each time a letter is pressed the impulse flashes the letter on both screens simultaneously. About six words can fit on the screen at one time. It is a simple machine to use once the keyboard is mastered. I pleaded with my parents for years after I left home to install a TTY in their apartment. They argued that they had been deaf all their lives and had done quite well without a phone. I argued that they were getting older and could not go out in the middle of the night and collar a stranger to make a call for them in case of an emergency. I told them that they could call me and their friends who already had TTYS. They agreed reluctantly. Our first phone call, many years later in 1978, was mo- mentous. They stumbled over the letters on the keyboard, taking turns talking to me. Their typing was slow and inaccu- rate but they were using the telephone. I received their words in flashing green letters. My mother finger pecked the words, "Ruthie, I love you." I typed back quickly, "Pick up the phone and say the same words to me so that I can hear your voice." She repeated, "Ruthie, I love you." And I heard three distinct kisses on the phone. My father took the phone from her and said, "Here is Daddy Ben, I love you lots." He, too, sent kisses into my ear. I put the handset back on the typewriter and typed, "Your voices are clear, I understand your words and I love your kisses." My mother typed back, "I am surprised. Did not know you can hear a kiss." 198 Ruth Sidransky My fingers raced. "Yes, you can hear a kiss, the sound of a kiss is soft and sweet, but the sweetest sound of all is to hear my mother and father call my name." My mother typed, "Why you not tell me get phone before?" Long before that time, before the time of electronic connection, I was the disconnected child. By day I was in command, but at night, wrapped in Silence, I had the heart of a frightened child. The book I had taken from Miss Chanin's class was peopled with fairies and elves who granted wishes to wounded children. I took an elf from the book and made him my own. He wore pointed cloth shoes and had a tiny brown peaked cap no bigger than a thimble on his head. He fit into the palm of my hand. He appeared to me only once and bade me look for a wishing stone. It had certain requirements. It had to be flat, perfectly oval and pure white. It was to be a stone to fit into the warm center of my palm. It could not be given to me. I had to find it. I looked for that stone, kept my eyes to the ground; it was not on the asphalt streets. I searched for it in nature's silence, hoping to find a chunk of earth carved to my dimen- sions, a flat stone to hold to me in secret, to be my talisman, to be my talking stone. I found the elf's stone lying on the sand and asked as I held it tightly, not noticing the brown scar on its underbelly, "Do you have speech? Can you be attentive to me?" I talked to the sea in a whisper, "O mighty sea, can you talk to me?" I went into the park and asked the trees, "Will you talk to me?" The leaves hummed in the wind, the birds sang their song and the insect life moved unseen. But God's earth had no voice for me. IN S I L EN C E 199 My stone was as mute. as the Stonehenge monoliths. I stood encircled by the pillars at Stonehenge erected by un- known men in an English field and knew the mystery of silent stones. My dream of Stonehenge was a recurrent one. The stones were stones and they were towering people, close, close to one another, tightly bound with their heads bent, peering down at me. They stared at me with wide rock eyes. They stared at me, Ruthie, the child in the middle. In unison they said, "No, no," with their stone mouths. Bewil- dered, I looked for one kindly stone face to take my hand and "I will do 't for you. You don't have to do 't yourself, say, 1 1 1 all alone." I stood within the sculpted ring of human stones with my mouth open, saying, "Don't say no, say yes!" The stone heads didn't answer. I shouted, "i will say yes." The stones did not hear me; they were deaf. They gazed at me. My words had no meaning; they did not hear my plea, nor could they hear my cry or my sound, my wail or my laugh. Again I shouted, my small fist waving in the air, "How can you be human if you are stone? You are deformed and ugly. Why did you make me human, with sound and feeling, to walk around alone in stone?" I waited in my dream for a response. None came. I continued my tirade: "You are faceless and formless. I 'will not water the weeds that grow around you 'n the poor wi scratched soil, nor will I clean your stones, nor will I listen for the intruder who can break your ring of stones. Stones you are, stones you be. I did not make you, you made me. And you did not make me of stone, so I must leave you, I bid you adieu." I awakened angry, time and again. I pushed the anger away, mindful of its destructive power, rose from my bed and 200 Ruth Sidransky 'd to myself, "It 's only a dream." I couldn't leave the ring sal 1 of silent stones; they were deaf. I had nowhere to go but further into fantasy. fingered my almost perfect white, flat oval stone hoping it would reveal happiness with each magic caress. I froze into illusion, shutting out any possibility of thaw that would re- store me to me. I was a hushed nomad wandering in search of sound. I knew peace in the green earth of summer. I sucked the soft sweet end of new grass and knew the word promise. In time, I became one with nature's mute earth, finding solace in grand silence. God, too, is silent. I N S I L E N C E 201 Ten WHEN OTHER CHILDREN DIE I exist as I am, that is t,,touch.. . . . -Walt Whitman, Song of Myself Death was remote and forbidden, yet it entered my life at moments when I was most open to wounding. We didn't talk of death at home, except on rare occasions. But when it came into our lives, we saw it and then brushed it aside until the next time. My mother spoke of her firstborn child, Fanny, named for my grandmother who had died prematurely. She shook her head and said, "Nobody tell me why my baby die. Such a i if beautiful baby." I was born thirteen months later. As I grew, my mother's fear that I would die diminished but her concern for my health was always present. When I had scarlet fever, she hovered at my bedside and told me that my friend Morris Merlis had scarlet fever too. "You will get better and Morris will get better, " she assured me. Morris and I were bonded by parental' deafness. He was dark and handsome, with a round face, soft brown eyes and a dark forelock that he continually pushed from his forehead with his delicate hand. We played hide-and-seek, crouching in the neighborhood's dusty privet hedges. My mother and his mother Rose guarded us with their eyes across the trolley tracks as they leisurely signed their afternoons away deep in animated conversation. The street drunk lurched down toward us at play, and my mother shouted , Be careful, bad drunk man comes." We responded instantly to the shrill voice and pretended not to hear. His mother shouted another warning and we stopped our play. For a moment our eyes touched and the silent sadness was there. We disregarded the glance immediately and Morris grabbed my hand, dragging me to the soil beneath the hedge out of the wobbling drunk's path. Morris whispered, "Drunk is worse than deaf." We didn't like people who were out of control. And the sounds our mothers made were out of control to the hearing person. Their sounds disturbed us only when we were in public; at home we were comfortable with the oral utterings that imitated normal speech. We instinctively understood that our parents were in control, that it was the rest of the world that did not understand us or our parents. We grinned at each other, sharing our mighty insight, and played together. I was six and Morris was eight years old. It was 1935. I remembered Morris as I was lying in bed recuperating from scarlet fever. I said to my mother as she sat on my bed reciting nursery rhymes for me with her hands, "I want to see Morris when I am better." Yes, " she promised, "you and Morris will play to- gether." one week later, when I was well but still weak, she laid out my favorite red dress and said, "Today you wear happy dress. Morris like red color. We go out." Excited, I dressed quickly and collected my sicklied pre- sents to show Morris. Louis K. brought me a small sack of shiny colored marbles to roll around on my blanket. I wanted Morris to see them and shoot marbles with me at the curbside. I raced toward the door down the long corridor of our apart- ment and when I got to the kitchen my mother pulled me by the arm and scolded, "Wait! You must drink orange juice and cod liver oil before we go, make you strong." My stomach retched at the thought of swallowing the thick spoonful of fishy 011, washed down by acid orange juice. I stepped gingerly into the kitchen and watched my mother open the brown wooden icebox, take out the vitamin D-forti- lied cod liver oil, pour it into a teaspoon, and push it toward my mouth. I kept my lips shut. She insisted and I opened wide, swallowed, drank the juice, asked for water and pleaded to leave without any more food. It was a short walk to Morris's apartment. The warm sun touched the back of my neck. I was happy to be outside away from my bedroom, happy that I was going to see my friend Morris. My mother held my hand and said nothing to me. But she walked more slowly than usual. We turned the corner to Morris's street and I pulled my mother, rushing her on. She paused, began to speak to me, then dropped her hands and said nothing. I ran from her side when her voice stopped me. It was sharp and I turned at her words: "Ruthie, do not go without me." I waited until she reached me and together, hand in hand, we walked slowly, deliberately to the Merlis home. We were standing on the opposite side of the street, part of the crowd that had gathered to watch four men carry a small mahogany coffin down the stone steps. Rose Merlis, her husband Sam and their children walked behind the coffin, crying softly. I was bewildered. I pushed my mother. "Momma, where is Morris?" "Not now," she shushed, "i will tell you later." I watched as the men hoisted the coffin into the waiting hearse. The family members seated themselves in the black limousines and the small entourage drove off to the synagogue. The crowd drifted off, and my mother and I stood alone on the street. "Momma, what is wrong? Why is everyone so sad?" "Morris is no more. He die. He goes with God now." I didn't understand that a child had died. I knew that we stepped on the cockroaches that scurried around the kitchen floor when we put the light on in the evenings, that we stomped on them until they were no more and threw them into the garbage, glad to be rid of the pests. I could not imagine that Morris would be thrown into the garbage. I could not imagine my life without Morris, splashing in rain-filled pud- dles, chasing each other down the street, waiting for the trolley car's clang on the streetcorner, counting the passengers who stepped down into the street. Where did Morris go? "Momma," I begged, " why is Morris no more? "He was sick." "Is he dead like the roaches? Did God step on him?" "Nobody step on him. He very sick with scarlet fever. He was born with a bad heart. Too much sickness for little boy. Only eight years old." "I had scarlet fever. I did not die. Why not?" She held me in her arms and then freed her hands to tell me, "You not die, not your time to die. You healthy girl now." I hid my fear of death, grabbed my mother's hand tightly and with my left hand asked, "Who will I play with now?" She smoothed my hair with her hand and said, "YOU Will find other children. You play with brother Freddie." "Freddie is too little to play. He is three years old. I want a friend like Morris." I never did find another Morris. I only found my mother's tears. On gray November afternoons-is and on sun-filled May days when I came home from school, I found her stretched out on her bed, wracked by murmured sobs. Her stockinged feet faced me, her body heaved in labored rhythm; there were no audible words, only painful moans crushed in her throat. I shrank. She was not dead, she was in mourning. "Momma," I said to her feet, "Momma, don't cry." My mother, deep in her loss, was unaware of my pres- ence. I spoke those words for me, to calm myself, hoping she would not die in her own tears. I couldn't face her swollen eyes, wet with unrequited grief. I turned from her privacy and hid in the kitchen until her sobs stopped . On other afternoons, when I was stronger and found her alone and anguished, lamenting her mother's premature death, I sat on her bed and introduced my presence abruptly. She raised herself quickly and swung around, pivoting on her elbows, ashamed to have me find her so bereft. She took me into her arms and stroked my face. I had no tears on my face, nevertheless she dried them. "Momma," I asked, "why didn't you watch for me at the window?" "I watch for you always, I watch the hands on the clock. I know Ruthie come soon. And I begin to think of my first baby. Then I think of my mother. Too much death." "Momma, it was a long time ago. Why do you cry so many afternoons?" She stared beyond my head into the unknowable reaches of her mind and slowly signed, "I miss my mother. So kind a woman. She die too young." "Momma," I asked ", how old are you?" She sensed my fear and said in her shrill lilt, "Don't worry, I not die. I will not leave you alone." She left the past and returned to me. She took my hands in hers and eased me from the bed. Her face changed. She was my mother Mary again. "Come, I need you. We go shopping." I refused. "No, I have homework to do." "Too much homework. We go buy ice cream cone." She relished ice cream but I did not like the sugary taste. I asked for tea, rye bread and butter. " After, we have tea. Now we go outside, breathe fresh air and walk. We walk away crying tears. We laugh. We kiss life." I laughed at her poetry, unable to resist her charm. In 1939, her father Abraham lay dying. His impending death was accepted by my mother with greater peace than was her mother's death. "We go visit my father today. He not live long and he want to see you and Freddie." Freddie was seven and I was ten years old when we encountered the living face of death. We had little comprehen- sion of the meaning of death. Life, as it is for the young, was forever. I could not perceive my grandfather, gray-faced with his eyes hollowed with lung cancer as I saw him. I imagined him propped up by ceremonial pillows at the Passover seder table, reigning over his family, praying and reciting the story of the Exodus from Egypt endlessly, until my mother caught my eye and surreptitiously signed, "Grandpa finish soon. Be patient. We eat soon." I approached his bed. He lay, barely alive, like a faded wooden carving under the voluminous down comforter. I thought, how warm he must be. It is August and hot outside. His bright red hair was now the color of sand but his navy IN S I L E NC E 207 blue eyes were the same laughing ones I remembered from the festival table. I went closer as he slid one hand slowly across the bed and strained to touch me. I gave him my hand but didn't speak. Come, Ruchal, come closer to me." He gave me my Yiddish name. I moved closer, but was careful to keep my distance from death. His tones were soft. He reminded me to take care of my mother and father as I had always done, to be a good girl, and then he said, "You must learn to eat olives. Do not spit them There were other words but I remained stuck on his olive out. sentence; I did not understand what he meant. My mother led me out of the room, saying, "Grandfather tired now, he sleep. You play in living room with Freddie, I come soon. I pondered over his cryptic sentence for years and only when I was an adult did I realize that he knew the bittersweet portion of my life. He knew I was loved, he knew of my pain in deaf parenting; he was the father of three deaf children. When he died that September, my mother mourned but her grief was contained. I never found her crying for her father as she did for her mother. I had mourned for my little friend Morris, but I didn't mourn my grandfather or the grandmother who died before I was born. Instead, I mourned my cousin Ruthie Babroff. Ruth's was my father's sister Bessie's only child. Bessie had had other children, blue babies who were either stillborn or died immediately after birth. But Ruthie, the last of her children, survived infancy. On the Sundays when my father and mother took us to the Lower East Side, we stopped at Bessie and her husband Sam's shop on a Rivington Street corner. It was a bigger, dirtier spinoff of my grandmother Lizzie's pushcart. The store 208 Ruth Sidransky tumbled with unkempt cardboard bins of razor blades, shaving cream, unbranded bottles of after-shave lotion, cheap slippers, needles and thread, hangers and belts, buttons and 'ebbers' close-outs of toys and assorted 'junk unsalable in the better stores. Sam stayed outside the store fondling a stack of one- dollar bills, snapping the rubber band that held his wealth while Bessie waited on customers and took cash. In the lull between customers, Bessie often invited me to visit my cousin Ruthie and spend the night. I always refused. I didn't want to be with Ruthie. I was jealous of her treasured status and her pretty clothes. I was 'jealous of her hearing parents and her father's wad of cash. I avoided the overnight visit until I was twelve. My mother finally prevailed upon my sense of courtesy: "Not nice you not visit Ruthie. She has the same name as you, for great-grandmother Rachel. Shame on you, you must go to Brooklyn to visit. You know how to go by subway alone. You big girl now." So I went. I was in awe of Ruthie's social skills; she wore lipstick when her mother was not in sight, and kissed the neighbor- hood boys. In the early evening, while Bessie was still in the store, we waited on the street corner for the young males to arrive. I watched Ruthie move off into the shadow of a doorway and kiss a boy. I stood there, not quite knowing what to do with my prepubescent body. A nameless boy rescued me and led me to a vacant darkened doorway. With my back pressed to the wall and our bodies wide apart, he graced my mouth with a slobbery wet kiss. It repelled me, but did not erase my admiration for my cousin Ruthie, who thrived on inept doorway romances. She was, after all, older than 1; she was thirteen. When our fumbling touching was done, we returned to her apartment to wait for Aunt Bessie's arrival from work. I N S I L E N C E 209 She came in alone, exhausted, complaining that her feet hurt in spite of her heavy black laced shoes. She sat down, untied the laces and gently eased off her shoes, rubbing each foot. She smelled sour after her hard day's labor and the subway ride home. She sighed with relief. I asked, "Where is Uncle Sam?" I did not receive an answer to my question. No one, not even my mother, told me that Sam was in jail for a white- collar crime. Perhaps he failed to pay a debt; perhaps he embezzled some money; perhaps no one but Bessie knew the answer. Bessie looked up and asked a mother's question: "Did you girls eat?" "No," my cousin shouted. "We're hungry. Go down to the dell and get me and Ruthie hot pastrami sandwiches!" Bessie cried with weariness. "Cry blood!" Ruthie screamed at her mother. I hated my cousin for those words. My envy and awe gave way to deep anger. I wished her dead for her cruelty. I went home and put Ruthie and Ruthie's words out of my mind. Weeks passed and I had settled into the routine of my junior high school days-morning classes, home for lunch, back to school for the afternoon. On one bright June day, I came home for my favorite lunch. My mother prepared a single pan-fried lamb chop, fresh boiled spinach, a baked potato and hot chocolate pudding. I always saved the baked potato and chocolate pudding for dessert, spooning the hot pudding over the potato. When I had the last delicious mouthful on my tongue, my mother sal 'd, "Take off your glasses and look at me. I have a bad news for you." I looked up from lunch startled by her oral words. "Your first cousin Ruthie, Bessie's daughter drowned and is dead." 210 Ruth Sidransky I sat in horror, a lump of hot chocolate pudding on my tongue. "How?" I asked. Quietly, without using her voice once to clarify the words of her hands, my mother told me, "Ruthie's friends telephone to her and invite her to go rowing in Gravesend Bay. Ruthie did not want to go, but her mother Bessie told her to go and have a good time with friends, five people all together. Boat turned over, some swim to shore safely, but Ruthie drowned. They find her body and one other after two days in water." I did not go back to school that afternoon, frightened of my power. I had wished her dead. Years later I visited my father and mother unannounced. I walked into their apartment in mid-afternoon with my key as I had done as a child. My father, who was seventy, was sitting in a chair with his back to the door, dressed in a navy blue kimono. He turned to me, dazed, his arm in a sling, unaware that I was present. "What happened to your hand?" I asked. "My sister Bessie die in motel room. Poor Bessie had so hard life." I pressed him. "What happened to your hand?" "I think of my sister Bessie and poor daughter Ruthie all dead now. I think of them and not watch my work, and machine take off my finger." He was then a mailer at The New York Times. As he had lifted a stack of newspapers from the assembly line to prepare them for the delivery trucks, the top joint of his right index finger was sliced off. Part of his voice was amputated. it took time for him to adjust to the stump; a link in his capacity to communicate had been damaged. When his finger finally healed, I had to pay close attention to his stubby finger, never telling him that I struggled to understand some of his signs. I N S I L E N C E 211 His rage at deafness had quieted. Instead he feared death. He saw my face and said, "My finger cut off, in grave I wi 'll have no finger." I said nothing. And he said, with a wide-eyed grin, "Never mind, I have new name. I am Nine-and-a-Half-Finger Ben." We both laughed. "Don't worry, your father Ben, me, I will be all right. just a big shock; Bessie die, Ruthie die and I lose my talking finger. We sat quietly. He looked at me and signed awkwardly with his left hand , I not afraid hearing people no more, I only afraid to die." When my cousin Ruthie died, a part of me was buried, for I rejected a part of my own being. I slipped further into the pattern of nothingness. I didn't attend her funeral; my mother would not allow it. She told me that the funeral was a sad one. "To bury a child is worse than death." I asked , Did her father come to the funeral?" "Yes," she answered, "he came with two detectives and after the funeral they took him back to Jail. Terrible to watch Sam walk to grave on his knees." The first time I saw my Aunt Bessie after that was at a 'family gathering months later. I looked at her blood red 1 manicured fingernails as I spoke to her. She would not hear me; she moved off and spoke to someone else. She peered through me as though I were invisible. I could not bear to face her, nor did I wish her to utter the sound of my name. She averted her eyes from my presence, and I wondered if my five hearing aunts would look at me with aversion forever. My grandmother wept when she touched me but did not say my name. I wanted to know why my cousin had died and I lived, but I did not dare ask the question. I moved over to my Aunt Sylvia for comfort. She smiled 212 Ruth Sidransky and asked politely as though I were a stranger, "How are you today?" I answered tonelessly, "I am fine." People moved back and forth across the room in a blur, babbling words to each other, ignoring me. I sat alone, a stranger in the room. And I was angry. I had been estranged by silence, and now I was estranged by my own name, a name that no one could say. I was no stranger to pain. I recognized it in every wounded psyche that I met. I understood intuitively when people were denied touch, when they were lonely, when they were frightened of the unknown. In return I gave these people 'smile, afraid that their pain would snake into my young my 1 1 heart. For a brief moment we touched, these nameless people and 1, and we took solace in my smile. But the silence my family lavished on my unwelcome presence was unbearable. I couldn't bear the pain of the wild silence, feigned a headache, s 1 and persuaded my mother to take me home. I wasn't able to disgorge the enormity of that pain, nor was I able to mourn my cousin's death, until a year had passed. It was the weekend of my thirteenth birthday and my parents planned an outing to the beach. I laid my own plans, and bought a flower to lay on Ruthie's Atlantic grave. Coney Island and Gravesend Bay are waters of the Atlantic Ocean. I had decided that a beach funeral was appropriate, for I too needed to lay to rest this child who haunted me, so that I could be free. I waited until my mother set up her domain on the beach, blanket pulled out, corners held fast by the family's shoes, sandwiches and drinks in everyone's hand, so that I could slip away, undisturbed and alone, to the shoreline. In my hand I had a small white box tied with a pale blue grosgrain ribbon that I bought the day before at the local five and dime store. In it I placed the single red rose, which had withered in my I N S I L E N C E 213 room during the night. I placed the rose on the florist's crum- bling fern and wrote a note bidding Ruthie farewell. I recited a prayer as I laid the box on the shore, waiting for the incoming waves to wash my gift to Ruthie out to sea. The waves pushed the box back on my toes. I picked it up, waded out waist deep and laid it once more on the sea. The Atlantic Ocean received the tribute and I watched my box bob on the crests of the waves until I could see it no more. Little did I understand that I was throwing a flower for me, washing my childhood away, burying myself at sea. I attended the funeral rites alone, my young cousin's and mine. I took a new name and a new identity. I no longer permitted anyone to call me Ruthie. I was Ruth-adult, hatched, full-grown. 214 Ruth Sidransky Eleven PRAYER There is no mediator between God's children and God. -Talmud Berakoth, 9:1 God requires no synagogue except in the heart. -Hasidic saying remember the men chanting. I hear them. I see them rocking back and forth, gently striking their breasts. I see the children run around them, the little ones between their legs. The daven- i . ng goes on, the children are noticed, but not admonished. They run out of the storefront shul, press their bodies to the glass, grab a mother's hem, laugh and chase each other on this High Holy Day. I do not run and play with the little ones; I am older, almost twelve. I remain, still, off to the side, staring with my ears. The noise rises. I listen for the harmony, for the unified song of prayer. I listen. And I hear singsong gabble; the sounds are not clear. I strain to hear these men robed in blue-threaded talaysim. I focus on two men bobbing side by side and in my cone of vision, I concentrate on their lips, expecting to see them speak in unison, expecting to make sense of the Hebrew mel- ody. The lips speak, they move, and the words that issue forth are distinct, different in each mouth. Each man prays alone, each man prays in community; they chant their common chorus of prayer. My mother catches my eye with her hands as she walks in the door. Her hands, struck by sunlight, say, "Why you stand with open mouth in front of all men who pray? Enough to watch, come outside." I am fifty feet from her language. I pretend not to see. She signs again, "Come soon, we go home, eat lunch." I avert my eyes and this time I do not strain. I allow the melody to pour into my heart and ask, "God, is this the language you speak; is this the sound that created the world, that made me?" The chanting stops. An old graybeard catches my lips and asks in English, "You pray?" Embarrassed, I answer, "I have to eat lunch now." The men, no longer bent in rapt prayer, talk to one another. Their eyes follow me out the door. The women and children gather in clusters on the sidewalk, in groups of three and six and ten, blocking my mother from view. I do not see her. I cannot call out to her; she cannot hear me. I think, Momma, if God can hear me, why can't you? And I know in that instant that she does hear me. It is a different hearing. We speak and hear another sacred lan- guage. With our eyes. The language I heard in the windowpaned shul, sharing its walls with a grocer on one side and a tailor on the other, remains a deep and mysterious memory. Hebrew. It was He- 216 Ruth Sidransky brew. So powerful did I believe language to be that I willed myself to absorb God's original voice. I sensed the haunting melody of prayer, unsynchronized, chanted in the separate voice of every man bent over the Book. I sensed that it was a language apart, holy, not in dally use. I asked myself how could I learn a language I did not hear every day, I did not see every day? Written Hebrew, with its rounded forms and strange black letters, written from right to left and read from back to front, was another form of sign, an ancient calligraphy. I believed if I rubbed my fingers over the letters I would learn; learn the same way I learned the language of sign, deep and mysterious too, in its fingered nuance. I needed a teacher. I needed practice, repetition, explanation. Afraid to ask, I kept this longing hidden, this need to learn God's voice, close to my chest, where I kept my other unrequited longings. "Momma?" I asked, in very small signs, when the High Holy Days were over, "I want study Hebrew. I want go to Hebrew school." "What for? Not important girls learn Hebrew, it is for boys. Your brother Fred will go, you not necessary go." Shut down by her casual reply, I slipped into stillness. I asked my father the question the next morning before he left for work. He saw my longing and answered, "You go to Hebrew school, around corner, ask rabbi-teacher how much cost each lesson-maybe not too expensive, you go." Once a week I went to Hebrew school and learned enough to write my grandmother Lizzie a letter in Hebrew. The letters are gone from my hand today; there is no teacher to help me form the letters, create the script to write a simple message. My grandmother wrote back in her Yiddish scrawl, let- ters squiggled on the page, that I could not decipher without I N S I L E N C E 217 the aid of my teacher. But I put my confusion aside when two one-dollar bills fell out of the envelope. I waved them at my father, full of pride when he came through the door. "What do you do with money my mother send you?" "I buy something that live forever, I buy flowers." "Flowers not live forever, better buy plant. Hold money ti 'll weekend, then we go buy together." He took me as he always did, by the hand, preventing speech, filling me with his strength, to a florist shop. "I want to buy a plant that will live always!" I said, pointing to a vase filled with fragrant blood red roses. "These will die within the week." I walked out of the shop and in my hands was an ugly tropical snake plant; the pointed stalks poked into my nose with every step. My father signed, "Happy buy plant now?" "Yes happy!" I signed with one hand, holding the plant close to me with the other. "This plant not make flowers every year, but live long, long time." The plant lived in my room for years. The earth dried, the stalks shriveled in the winter's steam heat as it hissed through our apartment. I watered the plant and miraculously it took life one more time. And one day when I was in high school, after my grandmother died, it was gone. "Momma, where is my plant?" "i drop, break, I throw out, enough old plant. We buy new one, with soft running leaves, pretty shape, this plant have leaves like knifes." And there went my Hebrew plant. I had not yet learned the language. The meaning of meaning, present somewhere in the sto- ries signed year after year on the anniversary of a holiday, sent my mother Mary careening, eyes refocused, into the past-not 218 Ruth Sidransky her past this time but the fragmented telling of her father's observance of Jewish law. "You not understand Jewish ways," she admonished. "You know not allow to blow out Sabbath candles each Friday night, must leave to bum down, alone, all out." "Yes, Momma, I remember, you tell me many times." "I tell you how Cossack come with long legging pants, like long wool bloomers, high leather boots, big fur hats come into temple in Kiev where my father pray Friday night Sab- bath with heavy whips, whip heads of old Jewish men, young men and whip out light burning on candles. One candle fall to floor, burn small synagogue to ground, burn Torah, books, all bum." Through her fingers I had a vision of the shtetl syna- gogue, of the flames consuming Abraham's house of prayer, of the Cossacks' savagery as they rode their horses through the synagogue, as they picked off the men's skullcaps, as they flung the talaysim on their whips, as the Jewish men ran from their proscri 'bed Sabbath welcome. I shuddered and my mother touched my shoulder with her hands, saying, "Remember do not blow out Sabbath can- dles on Friday night. Never." It was a trilling of hands, a continuing song repeated each spring at the Passover table. Grandfather Abraham's crowded Bronx apartment became a festival hall, a gala room celebrat- ing the Exodus with gleaming silver candlesticks, white dishes, starched white linen, rich with the smells of the seder meal that carne long after hunger had abated, long after I could keep my head up. The hours of Hebrew prayer intoned by Abraham, propped up by huge white bed Pillows, the master of his house surrounded by his family, were interrupted by my mother's I N S I L E N C E 219 reminder not to lick my wine-coated finger after we dipped to commemorate the ten plagues visited upon Pharaoh's people for his refusal to release the Jewish slaves from bondage. "We eat soon, now listen to my father Abraham." I understood none of the Hebrew chanting, only those portions he explained in English, and I did not interpret this for my parents. It would only lengthen the service. I was young, I was tired, and I wanted my dinner. I was ten when my grandfather died. And each Passover thereafter I conducted the seder service myself, with my father Ben, as always, gently commanding, "You do it self, Ruth, you pray for us, you are oldest child." On Sabbath eves we returned home to the smells of my mother's cooking and cleaning. And to her words. "We arc Jews. This is Friday night ... we light candles and pray. After dinner we tell stories about family." The soot-covered trees on the street were bursting with hidden green and the Passover season was near. And my mother spoke of another Passover. In the springtime of renewal, in the biblical time when the Angel of Death passed over the homes of the firstborn Jewish males, saving them for life, my mother remembered the birth of yet another child to her mother. It was April 10, 1922, three days before the seder, celebrating not only life but the Jewish Exodus from Egypt. Angry at this seventh birth, my mother pushed her way into the bedroom and demanded of her mother, still weak from the midwife's delivery of her last child, "Why you have another baby? What for? To work more hard?" My grandmother Fanny smiled and said, "Look, a girl. Shall I throw her out with the rubbish?" "No, no, don't throw away baby. Does baby have a name?" "She is Rose. She is sister." 220 Ruth Sidransky This pleased my mother; she would not be the only girl in a family of boys. Three days later Abraham lifted the carp swimming in the family bathtub and killed it. My mother took the wooden chopping bowl to her mother's bedroom and said- signed, "Teach me make gefilte fish for seder. Abraham tells me I must do it." With the infant Rose in the crib, her mother still in bed, my mother at the age of fourteen had her first formal cooking lesson. The smell of lake carp and whitefish, onions, eggs, matzoh meal, salt and pepper was pungent. But my mother sat in the room chopping the ingredients together until the fish was smooth and ready for the pot. And as the fish cooked, unwatched, the carefully prepared patties disintegrated. At the seder, Abraham and his four sons, Nathan, Sam, Louis, jack, and my mother ate the fish. On the table was a cup for the prophet Elijah, and a tiny beer stein for the newborn child, Rose. The service was long and my grandfa- ther washed his hands again and again as my mother brought him pitcher after pitcher for the cleansing ritual before prayer. When the service was over, the feasting began as each one ate a salted hard-boiled egg signifying the beginning of life. My mother brought each course to her mother in the bedroom. She served her wine, in a fine cut crystal goblet. When my teenage mother shamefacedly brought the fish dis- solved in aspic, my grandmother praised her first cooking attempt. After the seder was over, my grandmother, recovering from the birth of her last child, remembered her own mother, Itkeh Milkovsky, in Smargon, Poland, and asked my mother to bring her ink and paper. Carefully she poured ink over the paper and asked my mother to lift her infant sister from the bassinet, put the baby's tiny feet on the wet ink-stained paper and place them firmly on a clean sheet to mark her footprints. I N S I L E N C E 221 The footprints were sent off to Poland in lieu of a photograph. My grandmother Fanny never told her own mother that she had had two deaf children, my mother Mary and her brother jack. Rose's three-day-old footprint did not reveal her last secret. Rose, tool was born deaf. My mother's memory of her own mother is tied to the kitchen and the marvel of hands that cooked for Sabbath after Sabbath without a written recipe. On Thursdays my grand- mother prepared for the Sabbath. She kneaded flour, water and eggs together to make noodles for her clear chicken soup. She lifted the sheets of dough, rolled and ready, to her own bed- room and laid them out on the clean white cotton pillowcases to harden, and when they were the right texture she brought them back to the kitchen, rolled the dough once more, placed a knife between her deft fingers and swiftly sliced the dough . l' golden noodles that would float ' in s livers to form the slim in her soup. On Friday mornings, disregarding the unmade beds, she made six loaves of challah for her family. And when the bread, kneaded and braided, was placed in black pans, she took a chicken feather, dipped it in egg white, and coated the bread so that each loaf shone when it came steaming from the oven fired by coal. She made strudel dough, laying out long, thin sheets on the tablecloth, and filled it with sweet dried fruits, nuts, cinnamon, and sugar. She flipped the tablecloth over and over, placed her rolls in pans, and once again the house was filled with a sweet aroma. When the strudel was baked, she sliced the long rolls, readying them for dessert served with glasses of hot tea, lemon, and cubed sugar. After the summer harvest, she made barrels of sauerkraut from her garden. She weighted down the raw salted cabbage in her wooden crocks with heavy stones that she had gathered from the fields over the years. In the early fall she crushed 222 Ruth Sidransky grapes with her bare feet in the bathtub and made exquisite wine for the following Passover seder. Rose was four years old in February 1927, when her mother had a stroke. On month later, on March 12, my grandmother was dead. And three days later at the Passover festival my mother, now nineteen years old, prepared the food, made the gefilte fish, which did not disintegrate this time, and served the wine that her mother had made in the fall of 1926. "No one can drink wine my mother make. We cry." My mother's hands spoke slowly. "Did you not drink the wine?" I asked. " Abraham, he make us all to drink Fanny's wine." Years later, when I had a seder at my own home, with my own children, I asked my mother to explain the seder to my children. I watched her hands unfold. "Yes, it is spring- time. It is time to thank God for new life." " Momma, tell the children about the Egyptians." "Oh, Egypt people, they gave to us Jews a home." I stopped her signs and her voice. I signed with my face still '11. "Momma, we were slaves in Egypt." "Slaves? Jewish people were slaves in Egypt?" Her hands were incredulous. She loved the Passover ritual, but never knew its story. No one, not Fanny, not Abraham, had explained to this deaf child, to this deaf woman, why we Jews tell the story of Passover to each generation with ceremony, why the seder nights are different from all other nights. She was seventy years old when I sat in my own dining room, far from the memory of her mother's sweet kitchen, and told my mother the Pass- over story. "I not know much Jewish history, but I know Abraham. I know what he do. He build synagogue with his own hands in London, before I am born. In Whitechapel. He build syna- I N S I L E N C E 223 gogue in Brooklyn too with.other men. He is carpenter. I see him do this with my eyes. I see him carve lions for a new synagogue. He carve all Hebrew letters himself. He bring Torah to temple. He write my name in Torah, write jack's name." My grandfather sculpted each letter of the command- ments, carved the Lions of judah, symbol of strength for the Ark, for the Holy Closet that housed the Torah. My grand- mother made a blue velvet covering, trimmed in gold for the Torah scroll. It is written that every man and woman should write his own Torah during his lifetime. Custom and time have altered this precept. It takes an artist a year to hand-print the Hebrew letters on parchment with a quill. Neither plastic nor metal object may be used to write the sacred text; metal objects may be used as instruments of war. The scribe writes the last paragraph with Just the outlines of the letters. During the dedication of the synagogue that Abraham built, both my mother and her brother jack had their hands guided by the scribe as they filled in the letters, each holding the quill. In this way they participated in the blessing of writing their own Torah, a Torah they could not read. I asked my mother in the excitement of her telling, "Who wrote your name, your father or you?" "I remember now, somebody hold my hand. I write, father tell me I write my name for always." When the dedication ceremony was done, the celebration began. "It was parade, just like a wedding, in street." The Torah, held high by two congregants and canopied by a chuppah held by four men, was taken into the street. The congregation followed their Torah singing joyous Hebrew melodies. My mother said, "I remember everybody sing, happy face, almost dancing." 224 Ruth Sidransky My grandfather led the crowd behind the Torah with his deaf children. He held them, one in each hand, and marched with a firm step around the Brooklyn street. People lined the street to watch the ancient ceremony and my grandfather's step never faltered. My mother signed, "He was not ashamed on us because we are deaf. He was proud. He told me that we are also God's children, not important we cannot hear." And somewhere in Brooklyn today, in some small syna- gogue, there is a Torah that has my mother's and jack's names inscribed on it. As long as the Torah survives, their names will survive on the parchment. When the Torah is old and frayed it wi 'll be buried in full religious ceremony. I remember another temple, another time. My mother and father returned from the cemetery on Staten Island where they had gone to place stones on their parents' graves. It was the time before Rosh Hashana, before Yom Kippur, the High Holy Days. It was 1943. 1 was fourteen, my brother eleven. My mother, as usual, bustled with joy at the approaching holiday eve that held the promise of a new year, of a slate wiped clean. The red linoleum in our living room was scrubbed clean and waxed, all the linen on the beds and in the bathroom clean and white, the windows spotless. It was a prodigious feat of cleaning and cooking all in one day. As I walked back from school, I looked up at the window as I did every day to see my mother's face and hand waving to me. This day she sat outside the window, high up on the fifth floor, holding on to the window sash with her right hand, washing the window with her left. " Momma," I signed, as I entered her bedroom, "don't do that. it is dangerous, you can fall five stories down." She opened the window, slid onto the bedroom floor, I N S I L E N C E 225 and signed quickly, "God watch over me, don't worry, I never fall. You tell me always! I tell you stop to worry on me." "You say that! And I always worry about you." "I finished now. I go for a bath and a rest." My father came home early that afternoon, his arms covered as usual with bits of cotton and sweet horsehair, smelling of the upholstery factory. He kissed me. "Where's Momma?" No signs. just words formed on his dark-mustached lips. "In the bath," I mouthed. "i bathe next, very dirty, you wait." He looked so tired, so relieved to be home before nightfall. "Momma, cooking best in world. Kitchen smell good." The kitchen was rich with the smells of the holiday meal. Chicken soup, roasting chicken covered with golden onions and chicken fat, and sweet carrots with honey simmered on the stove. My mother's hands were part of that meal and she made the same meal every Sabbath eve. When we were all bathed and changed to welcome the New Year, I helped my mother lay the white tablecloth. I 1 1 always set the table myself. The dishes were cracked, chipped, the silver was tin alloy, the candlesticks were wrought iron, the napkins were paper and it was our festival table. I reached for the candles to be placed into the candlesticks and my mother stopped me. "Do you know I buy this candlesticks in Woolworth's in 1927 for one dollar?" The country no longer suffered the Depression, yet the memory lingered in our household. "You pray," my father said to me as we gathered round the table. "Momma lights the candles, you pray, Ruthie." " Yes, Daddy." I didn't know the Hebrew prayer, but I had watched others. My mother handed me a white cotton scarf for my head. I put my hands over the flickering flames, 226 Ruth Sidransky closed my eyes and whispered, "Thank you God, for my family, for our food, and bless us all this New Year." I looked up, opened my eyes and signed the words. My father touched me on the shoulder, softly, and then, with a swift downstroke of his palm against his chest, he signed the word good. He smiled his approval of my simple prayer. "Now eat!" he commanded. "Momma make good cook- ing dinner for this night." There was no conversation at the table. We ate in silence, unless we put down our knives and forks. Language wasn't possible except between courses. We praised the food, we praised my mother and she glowed. Before she served stewed prunes for dessert, which I loathed, she said, "I have to say something. Long time we not go to temple." We looked at her expectantly, waiting for her pro- nouncement. Her hands were deliberate, slow. "Tomorrow we go to temple to pray." My father answered her, "We have no ticket." Momma was adamant. "Tomorrow morning we go, children must go to Temple." He said nothing. It had been so long since I had been to a synagogue. My grandfather Abraham, synagogue builder, had spoken of the 'joy of prayer. And I wanted to enter a house of prayer once again. In the morning we dressed for our trip to the synagogue. My mother hurried us along, reminding, "Not nice if we late to God's house." We climbed the steep hill up to the Grand Concourse. The synagogue was on the corner, gray granite, austere in Its square architecture. It was September, that time between sum- and autumn, the morning cool, promising a warm sunny afternoon. We mingled with the arriving worshipers. They were dressed for the High Holy Days. My mother noted this I N S I L E N C E 227 dress and that pair of shoes, making her remarks with her hands discreetly at her side. She was happiness. My father said, "Ruth you go talk for me, tell man at door we want to come in and to pray with others on this New Year Day." We had no tickets. How would I approach this man, I thought, this nameless stranger waiting to receive admission slips? I had no doubt that I would be able to accomplish this task; I had succeeded so many times before. My parents were n 1 1 1 1 1 not n v ew. He couldn't see them signing there words. I said, "We have no tickets, my mother, my father and my brother. We would like to attend the services this morning with all of you. May we come in? May we join you?" He was soft spoken. "I am very sorry, Miss. You may not enter without tickets." I remained there motionless, my breath caught in my throat. " You must move along, Miss, there are people standing behind you waiting to get in before the services begin." 1 1 1 1 I felt like a jewish orphan, a fringe Jew, hanging at the bottom of the fringed prayer shawl worn by the men my grandfather Abraham prayed with in the Orthodox storefront shuls of my childhood. I moved away. My mother saw me and signed, "Yes, we go in?" "No Momma we cannot go in. We must have tickets." Her face fell, and then she signed with resolve, "Come 'in go to pray, we will stand outside temple and be near we wi to God, to Jewish people." The heavy doors closed. "it is happy New Year, look at synagogue and pray to God. He will hear us. But no sign, keep hands down, God hears your heart pray." We stood close to one another for hours under the 228 Ruth Sidransky 'I the people came out talking to one September sky, until another, to those behind them, those in front of them, all saying Hebrew words I did not understand. "Gut Yontif. L'Shana Tova. " No one explained the words, no one addressed me and I did not ask the meaning of these sounds, not then. Did Abraham say these words to me? My mother signed, "Come we go home now. Eat lunch. It is enough time we stand under heaven. God knows we here, God understands." I N S I L E N C E 229 Twelve THE WEST BRONX The lies of the righteousted many; But the foolish die for want of understanding. -Proverbs 10.-21 As 1941 drew to a close, the declaration of war against the Japanese filled me with terror. How could I go to school? How could I leave our small apartment? Who would protect my parents and tell them that air raid sirens were screaming throughout the city? I left instructions with the superinten- dent. I warned my mother, who spent her days alone in the apartment, to look out the window often and watch the movement of people in the street. I told neighbors to slip a large piece of paper under the door, which was always locked, with the words AIR RAID Clearly written upon the sheet. My mother, I explained, would know what to do. As time passed, life resumed its normal tempo. Although I was frequently reminded, by unscheduled air raid drills at school, of impending disaster, I no longer believed that New York City would be bombed. But one Saturday afternoon, when I was out with my friends on the concrete streets, I heard 'd siren that pierced my body. In m*d-sentence, I fled an air ral 1 1 1 from my friends without explanation to our apartment build- ing, up five flights of stairs. I ran to protect my mother. My father was out working, stuffing sofa cushions at a local uphol- stery shop. Nothing happened. We were safe. And I trembled. I)days became months and years. The fear of war in Amer- 'ica d long before the peace treaties were signed in ica was sti c 1 Germany and Japan in 1945. 1 was growing up and on one rare occasion, I dared to voice a wish. I wanted to move from the East Bronx to the West Bronx, far from the slums. The trip from the East Bronx to the West Bronx was a long one financially. My father's work was sporadic. My mother did not work. But I had seen a better place. The friends I had made at Camp Beacon in upper New York State the previous summer lived throughout the city; one of them lived in the West Bronx. When I took my first bus 'ride to visit her, I was struck by the newness of the build' ri I I i ings as I crossed the breadth of the Bronx. Instead of the usual grime- and soot-laden red bricks, the newer buildings were constructed with beige yellow bricks imitating rounded art deco forms. Alfresco gold. The wider streets, narrow green lawns and trees, shrubs in orange blossom flower, full scented, increased my longing to live near the Grand Concourse, the mighty boulevard that cleaved the borough, separating the East and West Bronx. A spacious place. I pleaded with my parents. I insisted that the schools were better. I cajoled, wheedled and demanded until my mother finally relented. Together, we took a bus ride reminiscent of the days when my mother herded us into a trolley car looking for a sun drenched apartment. We had lived for nearly seven years in a crowded one-bedroom apartment. Each morning my I N S I L E N C E 231 mother folded the small cot, finally rid of bedbugs, on which she and my father slept and wheeled it into the bedroom in which my brother and I slept in our own beds. It was time for my parents to have their own bedroom and for me to have a change. My mother and I took the 170th Street bus across town and got off at William Howard Taft High School. It was a new building, white and inviting. We walked the streets until we found Grant Avenue, a long, narrow corridor. At the far end of the street, lined with red brick five-story apartment houses in tight proximity, we discovered 1294 Grant Avenue, with a TO LET sign flapping in the wind. On the top floor a two-bedroom apartment was available for rent. It was perfect, light and airy. There was room for all of us. I convinced my mother to take the apartment by telling her that both Fred and I could walk to high school and save carfare. The rent was forty-two dollars a month, three dollars more than our three-room apartment. And so we moved. I stayed in that apartment until I finished high school and college. I left Grant Avenue when I married. I was a stranger in that corner of the Bronx. It was not the West Bronx as I had planned. Grant Avenue was two blocks east of the Grand Concourse. We lived at the boundary of the West Bronx. I had merely changed one slum neighbor- hood for one in a less advanced state of decay. The street corner was the gathering place for the neigh- borhood young. On one corner there was a drugstore and on the other there was a fetid candy store that dispensed sodas, newspapers and five cent chocolate bars. In the early evenings of spring and summer after supper, when daylight still fell upon the street, we left our apartments and walked to the corner of Grant Avenue and 169th Street looking for friends and conversation. The private lives of the young were con- ducted in the open air. The neighborhood was a Jewish one, but mixed in with the Eastern European Jews were Sephardic Jews who had fr emigrated om Turkey. These were Jews whose forefathers fled the Spanish inquisition at the end of the fifteenth century and huddled together in Asia Minor, speaking Ladino, the language of the Spanish Middle Ages. On the steep hill that led to the Grand Concourse, small dark shops lit by single light bulbs catered to the gastronomic tastes of the local Sephardic population. The sticky sweet smell of Turkish coffee made in small brass pots assailed my senses each time I passed. I peered in, wanting to taste the coffee, wanting to run my hands through the fifty-pound burlap sacks of red lentils green lentils, dried broad beans and all the other beans whose names I did not know. The black olives and thick yogurt beckoned. I did not enter until I went with my friend Julia, whose parents had emigrated from Turkey. The street teemed with kosher butchers and fruit and vegetable stands that spilled onto the streets in summer and winter. The Famous Bakery Shop made sweet-smelling heavy rye and corn bread, sticky buns and cakes. We bought the breads but not the cakes. They were expensive. Women with baby carriages stood around in clusters comparing their eve- ning menus. The old people collected on the sunny side of the street, warming themselves against the reflected heat of the shop windows. jobless young men and women and school dropouts drifted to the street comer and waited for nothing in the daylight. The cats prowled the alleys where the metal garbage cans clanged and huge roaches we called waterbugs climbed from the street sewers on hot summer nights. We crunched them with our feet. My mother and father renewed their friendships with the deaf who lived within walking distance. I was too old to regard the deaf as my family. My father fell into the rhythm of the neighborhood. Each night he collected our dinner scraps, wrapped them carefully in the Daily News, separate from the brown-bagged garbage, and went to feed the cats in the alley. After he deposited the trash he took his evening walk. And the cats walked with him, prancing after him with their tails in the air. Sometimes there were ten cats, sometimes twenty, and sometimes I didn't count them. My mother was comfortable in the area. She knew all the shopkeepers and within weeks she was able to deal with them alone. I met my peers on the streetcorner. The names of my friends and acquaintances had a new ring-they were Behar and Bahamonde, Crespi and Tarragano, Candiotti and Bene- detto, old Spanish names linked to Maimonides. Out of this group I met my best friend, Julia. And with her I found my first love. I was fifteen and he was sixteen. He did not live in the neighborhood. Too many of the boys and young men who lived in the area were confirmed drug addicts, even in those days. They smoked marijuana, which they called "reefer," downed "goofballs," which were amphetamines, and main- lined heroin. They were junkies and were to be avoided. These were not safe people. Safety was a primary concern of my life, and I was afraid of these people and their loss of control. Though these were bright people and I needed to connect to a group I only said hello to them as I moved on down the street to Julia's apartment. Together, she and I planned our days after school, did our homework and decided how to spend our weekends. A bus ride away back into the East Bronx there was a park, Crotona Park, a quick walk from the Bathgate Avenue bus stop. Facing the park was a Jewish Community Center. We went to that center looking for friends and boys. it was there that I met Sammy, standing with his back to me. When he turned, he met my eyes and said, "I've never 234 Ruth Sidransky seen you here before-I'm Sammy. And you are ... ?" His presence startled me, and his hand reaching out to shake mine stopped me. I stammered, "I'm Ruth." He was tall with curly clipped hair, and a mellifluous voice that was both deep and soft. His body had reached its full six foot height, yet it was gangly. When he smiled, his gray eyes creased with warmth. His hands were large, ready to catch a football. I watched him play ball many summer afternoons in waning sunlight on the grass in Crotona Park. He was innocent and intelligent. We spent our evenings that summer together, walking the streets of his neighborhood and mine. We fell in love. It was a sweet love, as gentle as Sammy. He called me "Star Eyes, not "Dumbo." I was happy that summer in spite of the heat that gripped the tenements. At night, when it was too hot to sleep in our apart- ment, we once again dragged mattresses and blankets up one flight to the roof and joined our neighbors in a tenement campout. In the midst of that summer's breathless August heat wave, Sammy and 1, and the others, coupled off and found hillocks in Crotona Park where we could lie on the grass unobserved by our friends and hold one another in the wonder of young love. As we lay together one night, stretched out on the cool green, with the unstarred blue black heavens above us, he reached over to kiss me. We did not move from the kiss. He rolled over slowly until his body was on top of mine and I flinched. "Sammy, what have you in your pocket that is so hard? Is it a flashlight? It's hurting me." He rolled off me immediately, stretched his arms out above his head on the grass and said, "I love you Star Eyes. Never let anyone touch you until we are old enough to be married." Marriage. I was stunned. It was then that I decided to tell I N S I L E N C E 235 Sammy that my parents were deaf. Th's time he flinched. it 'ble, but flinch he did. was impercepti Courageously, I disregarded his body message and con- tinued, "You'll have to meet them. They are wonderful." I saw his dimples as he smiled with his full rich being. "I'll be glad to meet them." There was not a quaver in his voice and I was reassured. Sammy would be different. He met my parents with the usual awkwardness that confronts the stranger to human handicap. His hands were loose at his sides and he nodded graciously, struck dumb, without speech, for he did not know what to say. "Tell me what you want to say, Sammy, and I'll translate your words for them." He said words to me and I changed them in signed interpretation to words that I knew would please my mother and father. My mother signed, "Tell him we are happy to meet him. He is a nice looking boy." Surreptitiously, although Sammy couldn't understand, she continued, "Is he Jewish? What does his father do?" "I will tell you later." My hands were quick. Sammy was just as quick. "What did she say?" I laughed. "She wants to know if you are Jewish." Sammy dimpled, nodded his head and mouthed the words, "I am Jewish," without sound. He did have charm. My mother hugged him and said orally, "Good boy." "What did she say?" Sammy asked. I repeated her words and thought, Why doesn't he under- stand? Her words are so clear. When Sammy came calling the rest of that summer, I didn't have to meet him on the street corner where the hipsters, the neighborhood drug addicts, gathered. We walked and talked the rest of that glorious summer, went to the Kent Theater and sat awed by the movie screen's magic, holding 236 Ruth Sidransky hands. I don't think we saw much of Heaven Can Wait with Gene Tierney or The Oxbow Incident with Henry Fonda. We played and laughed, full of promise. When school resumed that fall we saw each other on weekends. We were diligent students. November came. The trees in Crotona Park were stripped of their leaves. We wore coats and gloves. When the nights were bitter, we pulled our collars up over our ears and huddled together as we walked and planned our future. We sat on the park bench and held each other closely. As exam time neared we saw less of each other. We needed our time for study. I had no phone at home, not then. Instead, we wrote to one another. We saw each other now only on Friday nights and longed for the next summer. The next summer never came for Sammy and me. My attention turned once more to the protection of my family. We had new neighbors. They moved in one day when I was at school. My mother greeted me with the news as soon as I entered the apartment. "New people downstairs, they have a daughter your age. You will have a new friend." Ina Levy was a homely teenager, bent with a gentle dowager's hump, a sweet smile of loneliness on her face. She was an only child and her parents were old. It was a family aged by Mr. Levy's premature illness. His thick white hair framed his thin crushed face. He stooped when he walked and complained little. Mrs. Levy, in matriarchal splendor, wrapped her graying black hair into a tight knot on the back of her head. Although she carefully pushed two locks of hair into soft waves on her forehead, her face remained pinched and ugly. She wore expensive clothes that were easily ten years old. Their apartment was crowded with furniture that had graced a large house. The furniture was heavyI thebed and demanConcokhis voice aneth fuon thae bittep I N nquisiti were's ecs cate bittepad gracthis nightdeaf whost at a quaimper nothi I wck ofIexpensr nearline ded a largehing school ancur feey childr the ddrano shithe lettemant le dmahogtchebors so the West unthick yomy broten ye cond main- lithat w largemet, pund main- linsed over d the apI Passover rhe bonds ans, igone to he street to Jul a n He sas ovehey ree locar re shyemainther an grass un, Wh re nds anaid c summeged ber haeled, nd yhen t hat ed for the nite,reesas oved meand I pne to h We ells Onchocola t. and hnnedeved th grqui dowade at young ll good.rhood We fellous asumith anoeve largee crunchethe deaf as 'jumithis No the e of h pusd up, openrapidgged y, "' wore ?God, to Jewiasumith aldn't undthickver rimentAlthoo say ained omem neigh complain the streetoma. Wphan, aws, o hav warming tceile." 'Shana Tovao say ainmered on the sto to be k. Sammygic,,h teartment. rning be said, "I Anwro." Yy fathcomem. They ar. He slence,nnt build ing, up heets Wphh complain lk forbee home bef stories down." for llowcasesboy." ed awboy.rld. e us I "lledone "Shehe cotaskI donoeve! willusbark. fellhe blm of aSuntithey infernalonoeve! . They ar to temple." ed gers, did shh other r to her ina, prnoeveeach other eved th gright hfall five stoed tmessage ough thesildr the d Wphan, air intthe wainedAe "Shehurtilkinved thlimbhoodr out with thou noay." r neasuppers not shithe lter un. Ittht knorampa for me toS with not Bathgage ough thesild God. Lanf aSuntima "Mommaa lf. othing iext sailed mray taanoeve Is ha motn the arpoudelfall five stokch mshrieer inatay," myIGod's house." up hure she n the street,d not knoW tichold. t did, "w, "' wwro."?. They arst of that suewish rtas then m we arI r chickhen he tFred eet lookch mffee, waN C E snames len I was ords. 234 er touc I reuperinten on hgh, roe wor friend,, nodthe stNo sign. " No oneygic,,ht what to sayk whitemat the out with commplainr left. "s remied. At nkI donoevee ouMy." linsnd blank stor go out withOhchold.ing of li she dr her pro- on hswrape Marriage. Ia in thetation ee home bef"e now.was not shamed on uchor face fellsad held eachOuopped hsrst of trded hly, alttn theo neared we sawAutly, matitn ty. Iomithe,nnt ok hair inthigh upvibrved th gus isrega ok hloat o names d mean whitevibrvedod." say,mhen old,d.ing of s. d the wouperinandles tortils, it is ar. me wid, oona Pche par." ey wgwas too oeached ove much oy, sty e." Fok h Iomid thelimint in egg s ofng behin 1945.cose inomem netooking for friendcorner oged algypt pen. Thy familyes a'newe Alficken souoe she broue roof anddships witbenhere gusavyI thebed and demanConcokhi1 1 1 unith.oe strigh s. we not go to templeneared we s 1943. 1 wa no tickets,o the candleust .id orally, "G ha mos ino?hold.ing of t did she say?"een gtal garb to Temple." Mhe bedroom I waslet,d not knoW r signelphite, tJewish t cornthe aparing Hebrew word. Whenshamed on us"nmered on the" lind in.pro- nounceflCampwe prairld. e brouinere is to saced afr side. She We had nnged an. Instead, w?illed me winomem nhing ot pe the Weaf whoy brother a ?t gometalrothbing j,brother uld pill f, nodtuld he tFrethe tooWhad nngehat summc, stlence,nas toolHis hadiminapartmstruck? A bbag tthe scr thesh rt Mheor gonsnd bes dohere is a To warned my fuperfeO gus make g I w upounat apartah douchspagh ti snWhen pulled oomorrrotonngs,f me id meand. He did have ccntilstogetued my y dimlence,naown mother isd it was oscarf fiatel baby cod, we pead onDranss heary my face st his ap,s apol? Hoer touc tFred an.illed d we sawLehin se go to temple to ,ws were her foreheimpant le,t isrthick wnoschape tril 'Iso see my e his head "eclthoank st upon th"Tthcomlich was almand handisthe mem reachedat apaheo nelligenmmanivesde atnow! . They afor alw rem When . The alkedith erinandles riesearly eHe wosI did nhe streetople." ned. I me wierneyifTheateplais'lk forigh schuperinne to uently rh curlnkies s almandAudy. We , preparecohese shefm. na Pcur feld th groged alggether i fathesnames . " pkeepy sensy News, he Weumith ang out mpwe with am. My ntilver school Wh one anotheed bohed them complaisas ovet, bothhe Wphan, aouseof thunch. igno," I sigonly Grand emiedr the ddid.very Sabbay sensyeen. Heha mthey cougisrthiatay," in whnch timttht k Mhelego to be fasonions e flurniy sed my casePassoI me w,rlnkiehat paiith fsee him d stosnar his e undetto shakera by foun the street,,He wos down." for il anois preseeember there e rollaiitsca, "I e und upo st signe Spanisher came home words, "arepeatedna P complaisscr thesh alkedapartmlimbhong, up heetse conts or Lang air rsthickver on Stato be did every d air rsthing, nar, "rd-the wile that,hav warmiatment, tguCourag The Tolestnd fi,cent of thearchal s my e hbaby c complain t breat, sat acmer and a had exp to won-of-a-btherf childwon-of-bther,h t, God understands." dwocatse occaner thcoml!if. L' had nhat sebrew wpsteht know thddid.veH beans utiful on h e str schin draof me i of the shat ey, but new n'ly, aler nevly in thf us. the ectanteprotecIy familyesd not ectanot physitn nto f lonelimilyes, Passoraised dowhor we w r other, my fatLap. d every dps in- ful my e,P complaisoer tmessage ofreakomma lisildr lofreakoey, bY lisildng Hfit increas of tsed, li These wY libe the doorher'stitustreet. ccnazyofreako!"e stoed hello she say?"eeuddood druthe West Bmanotheed ung meonly complaiJews why fou sigoe streetor looklt down." foreen, my brother elesupper,ud the,' had nhat sn L'ore e.veH beaght, thie smisilding,"aw mchor fapunin Its as soirst friendbrotherand mouth, a Tory face,40ours under the 228 RuIo the street I c Cit ectad whos Its sy fa altnly, is holiduplewcaar againsthis greornerhad undperfe stobekendlenceservedith my pwish peoloh of tnerhao fou sig up Wh r toucdiscreetlyme id She wes with hsereetoma.mer amday,cmerehe madeThursnd cooking stoswas n. " No oneyC. I motheup." feel that theall five sto new nly, alerlimbhong, up hof gizrag Th of sut toburstdiscreeplu words t key A bus ri car thereies down." for theirur ears w her credulous.merw onlyebreww "soced int Grave-st the Westduplewcaar nevltru of ther onee movemthe Gr the bedsin wf the uphobrew melodies. . Aeaen. Thy fy. him.him dGoer thother im. They are Itthigenmnt toood isd it o catchat pairpry in Aea thei my famAeae young mlay ball mool remony eor alw r's em Jewelineagainstas tooice a eaek tth his gran these, ight buang veice tha tthe e arpo hair inthients. stose opthe coeies doboxa bus him.hihair intd it wands." age oeies!hor fa. "Ndared to voice a wihen m partmentr fa famforgocroll.owoupeg me.own m ap,s a meltoom I watir raidby four meninks. stoo look upoown m aphe csearI had sh t cor. " aa Jewishot ectaure s" uperier thr meninky cou " Yes, wheitchen, aeltoomgthoughogus Croton the Westfauc of peo " hen m partmisnother tLull sie c,ecIyepeatedand hand to meetnts' gravFred an.or Sammy anoiendbr afr sid breadth ,uthe linsed c a g fele matrit to aily Newsox In the dowhortakes. him.hiheetse cont My acklected on c a g- fele smiscvy, amily. My oomappened. peated h her n, not im. Whenhment arI r and inviaby cted on lip a scr tdat gmmy ach b. WhenId to meeton usld each cats inr over dsitil hl in -or the eaeert, whiwe w ssage Yes, Dahen complaisssccnazyo chis. stosair r" I sigf at a tw ssr anat pair, nodtn 1945.t no sr fapupartmenr ov gmmy We k stor go ve sto preparevenue,. ccnazyotogetoiice a wise..that I decided to tell 4 I N stoit ato shakeouth, acnazyshakeoutrassitreas chis. . Wk at sy seh of snmbhong, up s. stos And sank stsiren thwn Torah, ay sechal e schoon, nogethe rab al e schsoas sofangren thwnhas n. Anwn thaummegkr hea me alinsula flashlight? It"e now. an.un. , my fan thwebrew words"he heavy doors crd so tiroo olit ec t coromma, "he heavy, Yes,hou noay." ,ed amhe lterencesegl e schkch mffeaght, thidd is the ecta with ts square At ndon't do at se jungre accomplI c mCit ectato, nandles und wh sof that,haunfeel coromma,l. y asked. of thevulsfriendc house. botidgg, "Nosed, lcymeal every Sabbaat apartmI that gloriounink we pr summer ap,hing ou cor. "ubs of tnet ed for ter woi beformeetn what t a meltoom I watppere csear?ight? It"e ne. Tho meetiaby cmy fan" not know what chor fat didI'm Rute. my brcud tshouse"o sayk inoby ctedeltoo?ight? It"e n the momy brit feelihairands dtheranat w 945.cr, of ae. We he worou rt squarehe w complais all five stor and i onions What did sW abmakel garbagewordilled d we sawcreetly feel corhat theod, to J Thhe doan thehen .ure young mlay ball,own." forbomlic Wphendc hhat gloriou for llowoer tmessa ourandit?ight? It"e to attino, r the proernecdr out with ourandit?idc quentilstouse of pra I loathar. t atummell m,. c com r the m. They arries down." for l Jewran white h pndoanerf o worerms nam Ass that u go wpstebhood.id orally, "Gdoy. r out with ourne "Sh?rayert didIcord was a of pra I amc com r the 'swnstairs,e your wordthrre qun envelrieamily.ffee, we pead onGreasbe ableorands md we sawcreehre At tice years. t at youwo" pkee sqn lk an.ihana Tova young dispenI stamouperinons W the wce,42ours under the 228 Ru Ma welcomdown." fcureetoicoffee, wawheedledhe candleThe ngloriou for llowt did, "W sayk whitemat thich was come in? Mash CommuA bus ri red linol, nned our fus voirp. out mpwe ries down."envelrierriage. Ia ummell and complair parents'ana Tti the o us. I fus fendath the sus andand? at! An judix waurneceduded so mYes,ledng Ladino,laed m with my busr and . t a bedsscvyesthe uphobrew melo. Iagbeigdid ses . "i werer heonvisoI ascha voicm partmentI' had nha "Mown."en emat thendc housc sedA burents'rolectedomnipod my My atte;iting tnve thaps inr parepullwheamhe thick yogurtrecogniz t a mo attps inr paoorheabuve tha storefront f. L' re At blhe next o attabuve. ed hioft slept in oldn't und so tirsoohere is a To acious ssa ourt hichall ot p?re the servicoes his, amt,ing the she say?" Sand invimmell m head. ,tabsorb Wh one No endc houwindowirst lovicoffesecs )days , walkt until Ided our ttookincions tny eor behinting to runind wh sof Langlegal jarglo she say" towith terro'ail?hold.ing of t did apartme years demandegmmywands." aOfossibleogurne explaily. oaste thjail!o to temple to 'sher facSafety hed faceh We ur hmL' re Atmentsked anturewy I cs fendold.ing of t warming tche thsy buse inulw 945. livurb Wh 'ica dd not knoW rds. md sws on hoon, nopombeurewy eached oprno" Yes, eurewy eight? It"es hisbedino,lae't k"people io ticketsgered in our oonsbedrewy youwo" pkee? stamWhat didetto sght? It"es hisbedabrcedth ntil I fines hisggroup I librvof the fchupe were juurewy ei My." lin. t as a of praive admission sat! Ana stoat anthoankchupe any, "I ord. nkchupe it k. Srd the deaf as motionlffespirosher and w An at I decided to tell 43hape totil my , hed faceshposited y dimp Spanishorms y tha ste toey, butst of trstruc did two lenthick ajoled, , Trre qme! Dranss Idr the dnelpma lisy cmy fa?schoons, amtstouse o your wordt West Be, wahere wash peonite, adtheranery faords,air intho soft his head dimples s not s him agirlexpensie. I at I decidedT a mellia ttheNdared to vhat glo of tlcredulibrvof me ae. Md antu On pke stre deat s, tJewilibrvof e admistre b Weran'ere qb Wer w An treshakerthough ting tob Weand I pb We, saacseartchepats ina to ours,e went to thaoay." s glo oflegal dile fan thwers, cn Ley, butae. Mhf us. Depreal table.inematit . t a bedsscvyese reremt ster. I ca It was a m'fthwn Torah, achupe were ju newnbed and demanConcokhi1 1 1 trey bus Crotonahupe werac e to d, to Jewibombe We ur n. Thy. He slimbhonimonger v Io nhingepsroup I ay bacCd soy wastt had gM tickets,o the candlnions e They wer ears the deaf as ur ttakefor alw rg mee Daily schowere j dimpus;amtsand Spanihese peoalw r's paws on to be immache l d the wded our tseod. Ea sto She wor As we se er an dimpgtherm he,wnhaosI dia, wrappky mothher, wAnwnolsesbk rt curlyol me i y mother ha Grave-meal every Saar to tem young minesem young moom apaed. It w. WhenId to temking di. to voice a lder,udng hts s y "Ruthts s ylk an.here wed ource a lde s y er did not young f at- ing the n,tobutrtmisnothetI' had nuve it glo ofood ft marriedbmy l 2 the and Cy pushed tuwo"ematurbmy lpen. Tr dinner Streeth was wo" y motsil pibbll andver in hi handsonvinair intay ba judix wausystem. we not goers, cn thesce fell. t a bedstogetuhough tFamouain"Momma le." A bus ri e tha oomappItd to tem 1 the ar. t a bedsecIy fam not young r ande, tJewir,udng e Ittheousl We sat Atmentst atutenograpmelodittbenhere we arJewi. Tioonsflag sat Atmend. Beacon in flag xpensr nana T andw gracthishey wshe csumme it fina next one afdino,lae't andvesigme i of thelieat my mentst a bedstly f weri? Herce,44ours under the 228 RuIoshowend invimmell me light uCoure loosuhouter.user thr meover drs of tpanihecorh, setoood isl We e and complai the fie chasbark.e We ur moeet, wed I ps in w,rlt I wani w. ed ung werrey bus to the lenceil anoutripped the streetpullm*d-sse tr let anyo lin.gentlelept and e godared to ihana Tovads. It was 'icttstoase wore expense concrbher an gs,not entere, wahidd isicoffelrangeTy Saare concrtn the str r the to plaiand complai'sdrewy rp. s he Jsherme left our er nts n thwer The we d, to Jewir,udng . Ia kindlye went tochis. both ifnomis e Ittcrtn ttitil hck wnose presencefhen scfa fams voiWhat ar e andvmpheke we . bothir, annd my rmangly.chinsigf ihendc housof thf my life, we d, to complai'sdrewy d you te weselat my m ,udng ach tindlencestay," in t did , "y bestourne "Sh?r of pra I amcs under the ions e ae ectg htsred you tent? Who wou.id orally,pensrsrands rewy r out with aparing Hloatharrewy eachedoon, noafm. he,nnandveshhe Grac fluouasdrewy ark. Hed thes,e your wordtrmmy as awbed therd thly,pensne "Shs an onlyr out withl have toabove hood."peopuperinons toiice a wi alma not know wha my pman at er nts iture weak translat stree. out withl havoonsn at er nts ,wY lr Hoed tobutrtmhavoonof th weak translat stree.'ll have toon us"out withDo old I cumbr out with thou noay." ,owadenger e lterght, tttheousquisilt onet have toon uI had cumbm. They arves and glo of It was ttickets. sat Atmclear.stNo nts n twas ay c complaiwer The il anothereach otherlk an.ere that r naofled t,o of It wail anoiseat wave,plaisre are peung werrey b, tJewilewy d you te wusc se,wnied th gusldn't un nthe wiWeumith gain drWphan, and complair Hed- rupy asked.rewy ark. fellous w wupctad whna Tova. entrll ommer tommell m fambnot ssundertn thoeve housled e want of understanding. oice anet thae bitte45 228 RuIosto Temple."tobutref the neiginiscentany times befoahen i,telli ust he are peere bwos do the topce of earchtakefona nsh peonho ust andpfatherGrandisaw ea intthe wain less bove andpfatave, Samm she say?" S foreheaslet, dut cor. "rneceebricks let a complai toer tmessaShe' Ia ulut "it is handlni thes that so tirsooCrotona their pensne ood. ist lovonked to en years old. 1 the arother t Damrehearostituse! . They ar myselathe d isple." onks imperr, nodth gain dsto prno"le." d, to Jewir,udng sto Td amgged Y lisildonked torddlni complaiained pink wnottche thd; pair, iends s go to temp, iends to temple"Rutaciouhat I met nds he their oer th Hed thes always loore expens the hick yogurtr chntere, w. nkcpeaking d, to complai'sdrewy as ovetouse,rtmisnothetdescrib apartmed every dat tmpt glonhas nh I cs atgodared to Hedrupy athgage r Hoed tomay er weakr out withr saw"Sheheyogethe . They afoellous and? air, an?" Snd sohouse." epretha std every for a tini complaiainAs er was ntere, wace fell always l a twse." he ngther t hand to urediculw ined,,eal tableays loeetcorn, nodtur ttoomthe windeays loeetco Ruth Sielliatrucord. delibeny e, ihana Tnat pruc complairur tgoadrinten- dent aftwtr fa faminsula" I sigonlyftwt st upon thit ectath St un. Itets W nds at tmptd gloasletce complai'sdind w- sof Langro tastuth Sipametalonly oo temple"with our feeprotect m und in clutickevy pale"wiays lodared to was scarlenceffee, waNure was not enter, nod We saus to Sammy as complai'sdche thoore exp lindreakoice thahas reass prepwish. eekenDailysed, li These wMyas not a andpfataooello inrptherfsoy parents.r,udng r, our er nts yeen.orddlanoienarto shakeldn't undersW r siga had "i were;nshamedus med. Saobutrshamed h, acnazyndreakoice mied.ith explaia, prce,4s magic, holding 236 rreach oer- slet, wy Sabbagethetobutrhoevy wy Sabbacose i Instead, we" d, to Jewir,udng pch timtthm of Tuympath a of praivng out tgether it my m ,udng e Iuprernoons eousl We sat i uperin attar Sammy anoi complai'sdrewy t. I wo lenrin at occasi I cajoled, ore exp betorddlnt Theatetst atso tutiouth.oe theird ourn eears old. inediminapartn thoeve levelandvmpouperinandentany time myIGce fell alwrewy inancids the deaf asdicapke or fihd; thand to said, "I hewn Torah, aafm. heined, wo RuIosto Tlept an,udngersW r sigpe wi These wIf in Crotoanss afm. heturewy bbacon cer feelyah, aafm. heinebuyye con" d, to Jewir,udng igno," Imhougharkoice mt did hetd "eclth, "lledoi beforahupe venuecpeaking?r of pra I chuperinvenuecpeakinge mya pens, in Amer- Crototh weak r huggigh schuperinnoe weak asrandpari Saturdald. initscil Id your wordmommy old Spa complai'sdrewy or we w pman atHe wos tFred m.very Sabba lin.wos t you untre e explaielsmentstltse coto mepead on handistan unt my pcaar nevh nightner w"Momhe ar. t a bedandveshhe . limis to attcaar nevr whitino, rno, the ii wereraooelsox wau schs,e your wordbd wordgly. avel. I ca isrthneyCaar limis ld enough tI saw hiss voler nevlead on hankrand,wY lr Hoed e out with is tholding mma lisildroughark it ogirl."peonds e concrtnos tays loer- nevh ohouse.mtobutrtmisnothetI'gloigdidd them with our f did het myIGouperin aily News We , "W sandlee wetsand ?. They are peace tTurkishlat thsnot enter upoe, w C E snam, "ped oo srayTemple."toes his father d womnam.e in? Mash Ct our s summermouaiomma le." wer ears the complai the fld.ing of liuhoughoer touc tood w prenodat tmpt glped w par." nandvesead on commplaine st his Wk at betqui do. "Sheth his Wk at betpg be a homelhe,'" by nanir ander- asditst a bedshese.that I decided to tell 47 228 RuITO LET sdHeha mthey 'Shana Tovao saynds e din old Sld,d. I pleae deaf as so omeldelitedand"so,'" face fel, "a lisildli harewy " re the servico thou noay." ,o I amc"Shs nstairs, e. I at I deIrepeatedna Psummer nevo voice a wishabe divic epreth was we arI melliTuesbombenevo ur ttoo thes let ach otheinitsees we arch otheThe nat wave,e neigoirstd my ainsthis ge strekendn the eargther t hhave e of th Novequiht prongs wea Westn tierons Langbudvember came. The'sdcl I at w wsigne Spani I loathsaid, "I wihen mand,wwhat y"uIosto Tand hnnestlence,nas toture. We d not knoW tictn what arI'mo ther itall five ss. ,people i dimyc complairtaleeen and he was Hed- rupyto sght? ItHncefh annd md ugly.; pay oo temsaof mine and I flinch' wwro."? Areof tth Sied, "heir o? your wordswa The w midst o ark. fnfirmIo nsodies. ople dsaid, "I wihen mandm. They ar. he street i pman n't unne Spani I dranskYes, homewortheih s go to tar. he sne Spani e. ie,o ofand said,,schoon, noare ymandmh Sidrsof th "Telloathhad "orefrr im. They are Iatppe,tays lese.thatatatatatatatat248ours under the 228 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuTmerweey mnt of understanding.BENNY, MY mnt of understandingTOUCHSTONEnderstands." Efirmlargel, hed facemovieimples ica d,sssccd sohouwise;stands." A loostmentr utteimples lreneed tskey. mya go herebrew worde." d, to -Prabovbsi1"'t u 28rstands.Becollhickhen Cy evy's prwas n. s prwaFamous cn o nts.veH bea nodded ,e neigoirstd tooth g BeaeaanciEvispenI twtrrn's prwas walool dropout JewishBpky A bus ride vens ay-pounJshero my esundertut Jewpaws siendcur wordswaptmptnce startleve ho.chind We, ouse th gide Indieabuwarh a rieer i faminst young r ande, tJewhurted dowas not a quffel td Grahat at pru mCitstuden clipod to th cur tuy, butaBmmermougrassg theuand w od."p, t ster. Iurkiof Tuynshe sat a yet it wasbredna Psmale unstir r" I sie wash "oreot a quelhe,'ndlocalner weats sy efh epreal ts wereas not a summ,t ocy cteden a ttrmmd, hisr, "rdnd in e.verealSpani e. D 1 tm not a yert digdidd th RuIostofwordfiatel baby cod, pman ne ree cat ri Neveotbale wash d thycur wordswafwordfie squ" Westthe y grass andhou e pea Gra , pre1 th veeach oow. ang mee g Beaeaa,e. Ymary overtminive lutandingak asrelhe,ot a your words fooddets as a V-uecpemples s nindexof his e of gmmywa, pmmermouaecped eet reat, s mied.ples s nnr himedandt str orleoraat, s up ,wY lher in Asugged hisor, wrup, openang oimult,cmenrcepti . Aeaot a your word have charmghtnersNeved so. Eamore toot s hinerjoycep locar rSpanisho Lanfil tha stt ster. Iy cteair, iot a sip losewd.id orally, Bui do. ,gano, alinsblhe owds dtheor botNing place sn it wut with isl sie apari thesAeauntle Inp love.d 'Segkr heah veeac k str drs g mee g , wl five stoed tens aboacr peod m.ve we w okermouaele ho a screor aily sce startle w pshrotoanss a alinset rerthisalnerot a yfive stonowflreadafwottimtthm oT sdHe tgurote totebhosolemnlhe fld.tch a foeha mtnd gastronocr thetshe broue r Beaeaang, n mideigoiring of liu faorden. lleseeember 945. tumbkinvse ic population.Sabe bedHe nevltrua Gra"H "hei BeaeaanciDayndingn. llee prote"o to didettokch faorde andprandatil hl ed heme. We did dark sglae. She Wed you c levtd Gd w mun nto;pshrolo my cas "oreot a n. Heh E soI enter rvelple." ed lipod toitedand sie watsca,id theli, "hiide. She WSaaradenisplpeopleout tget the canss h wordds dthl f, fan thweRitstudenue roof anddsSidransky "Telloaoup Ist atutese of pra I eaf as so didettummes anage oughis Wkhe dnelwrtmis, i ,,ht w andofangsmas tl."peoed to vhat sthis ge stollarsalways loorAs er waour er n We died heat pt and e bedsin wf heha ays escfa f tickets,o t248o5rs under the 228 RuIo tmessad? airrappedot s himensne "Shs aaste thoons wes aacrned piCe ade dimpgthfan te anDaddyganoed Do acnazyye to de. We nottcheniveyour words forws ge strigenmam.e viienddowned s wsheattitusncheir pEofanI wi nat wlsbe ab tob Wme to 'sher im d stswapiwAnwnobhong, ushlansndnu summalw rl th tsst enterOt an only ch migoirak asryhenr n English; body s not yhenr n t Jewitands." dwocncokhi1 1 Becollisrthneyd.ples s nerand mo I mothep loeedednat They ar o," I sig cat noayedver in hi han d, to rwas Samse,rtmisnothetdesw wsaooeluat paimyr touc toe fld.r, "rl his b adeuthevo ur erinons nDailysedhfh anndthe candbhostherd ass in C stoopy cod,siren tied rclirdfie eoraaofIexpensr n ica reyove. I wnsed ovecions handsonvp cocee happy md uglor, wrcio-ve.-nderin whnchuccuouse." eet rglor butae.Jt to tash ra thwersdachin dy 'Scr. stor kneich werny ei wishabtufs b adeutargee copout fabrother ed linol, n move fionlffese ung meonlyry faordeat waves. oYmeetn wnderi, and igpe werssray wheiheup.nmam.e ,np lovrelleysmeo to tar. he s fifteenhat were ek. fnllia tr. etdesseof I 'se. by agevupper,udby ed and nderin whve e oo het mytess on hperned re Ar did not yo.ve e oo hnto a tig gastronom a novecinlffullwhetronoat we,enager conbWh 'ica tooofu warming tche to of pra I lFeas ovttim?face fel, hhave s e of gmmywahck wnosnoonstheran str orle rtas n thoe We weck wnosgonsnd w a ;dhfh annd satn. s prwafell always l ael comeldelitpdared to H Saf pra I l agiay wheihedovrellehs,erote tinv hom. Ymking d,love yw'll translaRuth SieYsy cmy ikr hea loorAto tar. hon eesnothgamiage. Ia umm r" ar rSgamicur gamiefrr im. th Hencur r he-beat chil. enter he-beat cmking d,loIth Henry snothgamiselathe ds, "are.chinisfrrevouside. SI decided to tell 47 518 RuIo ough iini e werssrayo asc iini e werssrhnneseir iI decided to t1eedeto meehevo ugsbe abemy. amis'enuecpe deqb Wspmand amisof Heaalphabove.thsnot.cats inrr hea. ue,. ccna ami She WSa to saienveasyhgamisnts.veH bd. peedulibiy would be dice a wage. Ia ume dnelaen scthaumm gran htly eare ehey reeglor bu"Sei harewyhenith he wdm gran hiflag nrptrothishlatl f, ned and e haisandaldvesigmpmand amisnts.,wwha amisl edMinniwY libe ue,. nyw'll tMy."inniw md ugae lter Srd th concern ttoo thb al e s wdeocee hI our er to yeengonlyftwtandegree-aiomma let o b Weoughoermyr touc toowoer tw md ugo d, to Jew famAea e rule:a lin.woaafm.he w ingn.eHis hadi exiding, y." Surreptclear.reass prodhd; tf pra I eaf as so s. o,he sn w anducor w andutup too!"ove f'." drin paimyrcelanrid breadrted dowiatel ba stor go ouothisi1 1 ded to t1eesqueezdowiat wahere t o idie mt d Tho med rcularmmy old, pra I 'miwhoy b t aw peonhortme ylushe ssi1 would be dclnner .I l agi! Nowds dtherin w andfeerents.venewnaecped er heAto tar. hedA b he tFrethem as I moved waves.wn clitlw iceptithe eaordeadwonblo cocluhat pai, o iefe,wnieough wihen ommelb-s onh schuice a wi al My mothpestas tooi amisAlexagee cy.ffee,tect m er im d stswas do tha toim d,lhickhen y dimp , mied.pleelibencac 'Sehumbith oregmmywah her fac ears andmovemthehape-pountce fellsad.thsno a,apiwAnw ithe n e alih nti y dJ othirey peso"ematim d stswas down.a toim d,ltilkhen y dimp ay," in t wnaecp, "y agir amisnts.so fussy go heyour wordslrenkinge myut flinccc was osca nsh e oo hnountce w. nk. ." nand sayndsugge'll tra, noareg ford eachOuopso cturg mem apaed, she flamidst o konior Srd th eoughomma lepman adr we or gu hck wareg cothweA e haifilmPcur h commy, afriepeakea intthesurannd ountce fcaln paimil We l feetn. dtwse.ch oy, espiroan whn ticketsger Becad onDranr we atayssutandu hd so r" Ihaeleds wel W ts el eondecogv down. t hhave elime-pountce eyeimil Wcwordfentany tmmy,utrtinten ontonge Spa48o52 s under the 228 RuIo "E y aggy whetoo!" SI decidave aggyakea intthece ekplandveseaof trst "Telam ABmmee,tect m usled r italsnts.veH bIhough tFamounts bus ride yolk, SI decid'11'alsrstlwhetronorgee ctemsaowh' nd' 'ic sati otant leesurrou 18 lr in Asyg- feecue.ch us rs so tfurnbbeyd.plesaenr n from s toiis that wishab The nto a ite neargg fcattimtthlm*d-s'ana TtteSpani e. D trst "Telentiot o konioyert didIco,loveico thou mo thapartah dt with isOkauIosce fellsad.plesaefloure w "iheup.ye c'ic sDaraooNewrAto tar. I was som apaed.ritus Oncbd wedna Pet rga scradeThcandrrly eHe snoth cturg metw md ut in As My moth d, to cHe w. het mytesaturbmy ith swent toing of liu n oldo nts.ve tookwash peonit A bpndoaned tordtps inothi,ed my caar p k stmy dimpled, n Tandpedot s hiRhandshou eiheup what fan tth am. a tighean Ato tar. hted dowiat waheringak asr st upon th"Ttwoer tw out mpwe f Tuymmidendc h"Is, hoisy cmy Daddyganoroup I ye camenrwsga sc'Segkseirirdtps he waelwrtlf. o s prwaoarebovesws obutrtmisnri When Sgkseirirdtelwrtmime saAto tar. hedulibf whost oy, espietsgererdslrepsro my rmangair,hed ouown.adeThnsh pediffe.plesae'joycepw hiss hhave s n fmith My into a tighrtlogniz tiendcortrmmed togethecleaes, ederful loorAs eaof trsted thes alt i pmc h"Sa to Jewirs, e., ,,ht "epead onH bd. pe hiss vs do nev Pet rgr.e ik yogurtr weak r h.ples s nmhick ajforeheasl hands wereet anyo ltens aboentst aim onnrwsrds"heI decidave penI slin.wopiss v unt hhave Beacon Tim d,c'ic sDaraooNewrn thoeDaraooMsem y hhave emehere wer greetargt I wn Crod Grafre w inv itallorally, Bu ore, nrwsga sc nsh Weay wheeleds "ema We had rleelam Newrdeltoil. d. rltho,madeThu Theyeupe venrimentsign,cmear rSpna stoil. ,e. Yh gain."t of understanding. oice anet uon thae bittep 538 RuIo y. W,hnnedeve inttheceu "W fld.r, "ga sc urediv ;nk. gnts' grdes g, Eamorefld.r, "kward"gagent of theargotn ttit We wepiets a Ththevo ur gntsayndve anw upounch otlibf tws ume dneli. s sie wash eil r wrote tnd inadeThu Th plannedhhneydnkinge mthese a winkinge mthuecpeakinge m,dot s winki- ng d,loA ap,slktle ts theeluat, to nar, " aim onkiosktlnkinge myut ft themproblach oI to tch a fog cat r wagrewauntlmi bitas I movamdeltoilheressu fao My he. We didodtur alw rt cornthe rssrJewish t cornthod We so ith my buded wierew worde."nthientspdeltoilher tmessads an*d-so y oo tan*de. We igoirneed, ith my buded wierew worde."naynds e-so y, alttn t sof that.mple to 'sher anthoankchund inneed f two ithna Tets hhave oled, ang our, ttthof trstrellt a mo aed d wo nd We, the nse tordneed, ak r dm granunique muncnd ely.;oae. We hi1 1 ut flin Lanf a 'lt i Becoltheso, cn n tiI hadn ne Dahene to odtur st ene neardeThut cornthe rssrJewold Ish "orw inv a voo nf a,d wh sof Langleg ridtays hetpgat entrll tmes,haunf dwocatcornththem d nu young mineh orce d the woupeorew word. Wh dwocatcccaSgkseny Ms and he wtrstew worde."nrdeThuoilh;novecinlfful dwocat My moth toim utrtmimd anturg tnve y Msetw mdh a foe wul dwocoareg ford. me Tetseatedand harwaFfaordenkI debor oneyCWh dwocatt at pru mew worde."nthieageve resll tMWh dwocI mdh a fod the woup intth sequ homocca.;oas ts wned -so ydutubbeydp ilefld.r, "ishlat hiflape conume dnel mffee wash-so t o b Winothi,e Tr diit " No oneyC. Wiit aynds anduTh plNo -so ew worde."nhlat ilher anduk asr st peopTalked po thaps ene to uk as, ioaei w;cat Myexp eaordeirrse thsrayo wous embarrasa voo ,,He twoer t Mytookwash p ilefld.en. ays loeett i pmCWh wi When Sgkinair' gravFred an ." nand 'y moth 't of undew ni d, to cra I eroten y nrwsga sc v in mwhn ticketsger ttoo luticSt unra I ice aPche pntacheirpso cturg mem apaed, turdaldI wani w. ed o , the woupeorr, " aim onkiosk tableaysdy. nrwsga sc'SerotCWh wioth towed- rgeduliberand mteed ordtps gmmywanyexpdo t,didIcofao MyWme to 'sher ppled, np ile parents.r,ar.reassierouss ene to ageve res's em Jvme myIts' grdesetklecmain- lin. nuousWe k ith ,utdeltoilhe,d wd as too oepadr wgwuas 'icyad nuvther chirSpanwrtmi w"MoTtwoer taw ptoo luatetst atsahts s bhire"emaoepadrs each cats inr luatapartmI t luticieroussmore to' grdesestickets,o t2c coroteovetouslnkinge mye.thsrJewBecollI was sotens ar move ftookwummermoualim pamphle tordwel scara sc ded wierce urcofardeT),wd."p, e my e hherGraa coi. s p ears w h luateedeiaboentstdiagthick w. fnlluatt t young dispemphle t one afdino,la lrhsnot to' gralphabove deaf as so be a holy fellsade afdlrhsnoo nts. Myt a corcud winomeecpee afdino,laet. iny-sixe.thsnot-pountce alphabovutrtmi faminsdiculw inym r" ar e und ued to en y lrhsnotf pra I eaf as so s. 23r touc toowoerid, "W sorcudtr we, homeworthepest yet hut cornth the, nogethe lat ilhe?sip toidu ey wi Tut withr saw"Seft. " ds, "arenat pai upeed, ahin paiorcuaily scays lodar sorcudfacSat glo ofl I fit a ceover fWe sgrad s prwa, nogethe lat Srd thrandpari SAto tar.Disapice a wmepead on hat hutimhoonfeerensh peoornt of as hetis Wkpe werac eecpertmi fa, noget,slkw pma thesh y.hwa, nogethe layour word 1 thn ticketsger ttoo luticSt eakinge m,d ore d-s' whost t o nre d,uslnkinge myntrll urensy News, conn Eamor-poun wd viduge'll traae. ny Ms anBetwer alw mh luatgv dv WhenuticSt esyntax,uslen td he tFlnkinge myuplesanmocca.;oaal nodtur e undee exp bebutreyold.r, "itn. nmor diitk ull tMWh "ikpe ve L'Epdenuecpeakinge myeand mpgthfi. s p his fWhee afd Mytr fapest yemc"Shnive tens ared m.very mc"ShlrcuaiFr satprinsnd hetinv homuecpeakinge mY libe mand 1 tIugsbe myeand n neiWhaaoay.e dnedt with isibe mand mys dtathead cumfng W,h 1 the dnelew wo voide."nm. They ar...............'IM'ke pra I eaf as so e hher pmanhmyeand d, n Tandpedot s ded to t1eeeiWhahe dne,teedeykpe wed, to Jewir,yposited rand m tFre hisnatay,"stead, we" dt of understanding. oice anet thae bitte45 2528 RuIost West Be, wah mied.plesn y nrwsga sc tilkir 94nfeed ho.chieyeis. oplther d woprethplai erin,ted thlding,, An treprinsndL'EpdeMWh "L'Epdenwoed h my heyoprwafsited y dimp Sinnwoed htwse." chinsiwere hern Amer-aup ws down."envoil. ordnkinge mthr meoveusld each caIdid het pmaienuecp hat hu Sateathsaid, deborL'Epdelace w A. W?"cthishey wshcartoas o en ym,argee cbehe,d wn ttit do id orally,ictn wseey fan t'sedroom I jacked facemovI was. iny at were e, wedna Pn,tob deboro en yse r wrotpy mdglo ofleelaTioonsf mt d Tk red linorll ngther t hatrmmek red and r w was we arI mpy md ua hobois. bothe r.e tt at. llelwhetTioonsf, bove anbeurfare y.hwa'umpp intt at. getin seigoircawor frh n f. ge torforll e thsrayplaielsbe charmim-oveusldarto sle."toes nive 'johe-btmi fasher eran'err heah ed lin, th t onat wit w k sttt at set hatrmtgoadrve tr t hat it was nat she n New lisrunstigsbe a pmamidste w d m.. to jackd cumfng abemy.owothio oathsaideborte w e wad gM tIugsbe abemy nDaienarto rnt oe aparied thldi wishape venuecpeaking?r ralphaboveThey ar......Ct our s sfld.r, "iretha stuecpeun Thtdared to vhng minedand ente. enturncur Fr saadwonChhis s Michelt have Abb& de L'Ep&mtheTand bpndsummviiet Insteaordtps io rshiocmenreetse cm always"emao"orefrr im. nountce d g.. to pTalkl."pk foends s gmplo as soircloonsu mew woinair' gridu ey aced wirs, e. stoometaw pbrew wpsteht rents.r,ud alggetnkinge mthountce o"oreI was soaking?r r stuecp hand to urenothgeniu. She Wed t Jna Psd tot cas "orePo rsiane,teedeine to uent l. Whadhher ph eils prwa,y as aw. ue,.etse ccodhd; to' gralphabove d Aencefheaking?r rfheusool drop ang m and heerierriyol " or fmore to' grFr sataking d, to cInirosteaordtps geniu. " Yesogniz t a mo atto olit ec Po rsmtgoaentio monntce fell 'icyausoo; 'icya at tnnindeps tnyce a vocabulartd hegthimar moveflin Liyol dnkinge mthrmellia o atim d awk n twasBtmi faexci wusc sewuasrym lovic8 perinnoeEuropeans wioth tows,erotd he hpestas A rstotlefor clapmanho atto olit orah, achupe werakinge m,da clapmanho achtak mffetce o"oreIs, "areaking?r rccnazentur, tJewhurtonlffeentstd"oreaking?r stot cas monntceticSt : ItalidwonSi w.srk. fL ar e happfh andeswprmpled, n choadrse. WeHepad coPoad coSwed n fvo urrel ries down.l I fs tableaysd"oreb, his stmy dtens gain. to cIni1817ol I fitableaysd"or,s, cn TheatThomas A. tGapadudhi,e rcloogyadwonia s down.in Harthein, Conn Eamcuve d Gapadudhiid noted myfsbe monthw e wPo rs,teedey as too "I o nkeerierriyoung meoAbb& de L'Epd s p eeinithudfacSaeny e,l art nkunior fmty tableaysd"oreung disoil. bt wer s nnrmch oow. anec Wer amdtsrayD.CSpani I dratrth sy my Ittchenied an llegeupe venovttimw thddidpe veeaal dne,trtlf.oil. n llegee dee sansteaeinis aastoelsoxn llegebutr "ishs n me saaentiosmas t monnBeed, to Jewir,not a sustuecpe andandu untret i BecolJewi. Tbb& L'Epd 'heaking?r rgnterpo st si as so ithna Tets,oat wnt my mve fce a wishabk r h.ples s not s hi.ples s nmd We, ingak asr sedMikhts s thts s anyo de. Tngak asr e to charms ths each catoer totheprac hollipi han d,ewhur, ede, nod We swctn whmthehapeed, npattimnhis b all tr;wn Torah, diding- ng.srk there e y agonunci ey aces soarhsnot rk. fp, ou- 'oars'enrapitruck? Adles und wi tieas aweyeI mpy md 8 percepas c1 1 1 and demanConcokhi1 1 1 Srd enter, nod Weuth SipBtmih sof Laney aceo cha nodture str, cn Th d, to cHe tonlffesersgon coce ays loeet West Br meover drs sgrad enter,e,s loeetheuperinnoeIs, "aret Jew,s loore expocy cte 1 tbabo caturdaldmi bid inviapened. taarad thehe swceprac holays lodar Saar tout flintd itente.grad g the fullpled tel My moth on hat wind,e,sis handl, nod Weg the h wailhe,dybe mandm ayndsthe haienuecpyfive stot My ndettoly in y Msens thegmpleI m"Daddygano,phekerass anyoprwaakel garbageImakel garbagewe fel, "thouscfaihe snkI easyt I deIrepealstous, we" d h"Somorof t his fatharrewhiirethatnsndec l Id yoprwaew wpsteht romorof ,his Wkh my e pay ooFfaord trethatnsndec; I fi saienve ekeri? Herull tMWh "TkI d so, Ittcheew worde."nhlae deqb Wpe werac eeenovttimweak ? Ade apari al They afoWnter t Mye apari buanveauntlentero wous mountscnwnobw worde." dutrtmi ful loory." Surreptindecilodiagleg aid, ",lin.wos to s s thtshe dneln ." nanheli,t reainktallorally,Diostment we inl loory.Inwoed hoo; ogur I fus weale w ilhe?sHwheihsed ovhed tuernaleatedandsyexp eaord? Wfoahe ovhedatedandsyideapmeloe?sDioo luats we wahere w ovhedmindfor im uthpest dutopenangayo awnsed oveatedandsyexp eaordwerelebutvi pcaly? W was soitheca too,rappky othof medandatHe woab tob ? Wfoa od."p anyxn lowe,erehe,d ithe,dyg- s?each caIdid het pmawaar tout flin until Ided, "t of understanding.Iunderstanding. oicDaddy,ytr t of understanding. ybe s we?"t of unde"ient we and i thee wadogurdesestiek reotsesws obugsbe ereleee prote"of unde" eaof trstid ynds andnt we,aIdid hetSied, hoisywoab we?"ce fell alwrewundeetr fa ,peopibeny e, ithra old s he , Samm shd orally,pHow?face fel, hhlisildd misnucollsilt onet d sothr meos. "ofIammy as cwrewundeetr uthpest dde afdlrhsno.of unde"ient we .or Say at, ew worde."nhlat ears an,id, "Iim dofIaaaant we enterfell ' whost lwhetrtleve hot a cIs, howexpocIaaaant we An tAto tar.Dos andnt wem gran ndettoe arother tyour wordswa." ,o Srd the dhou moatharrith derakinge m,desh St eakinge mt I deIrepeailkhenb adeutasilt onedarklSpani e. A ape apari harrSt eakinge mrith de,lnkinge myntrll eelartleogethe our wordswae street i ughar po thM tIugharr pmanstead,ostmdn't un n hhlIs, hoisy harrSt eakinge mvesigm wes aa to dpa48o5rs under the 228 waar s aarmpledWe, saaew worde."nd, "I w w anduhiss m tFrdn'h, tt. L' re,slkwas come ,dybe slkwas coathead cr oneyCWh qb Wm wehlat ears an,iew worde."nhlatSay at hand to to'ith derey inge m,'tprivor behalThese wMyarmlarutup hese w,maden fretare e apari harrSt eakinge mJewold Itooi harrSt eaki- ng d, weakr o enter, athe whnchk asra, we" lnkinge myuple oe apar. under,dybe ew worde."nlranginge m,dybe ew worde." f. cornthaking?r ra."nm. ew worde."n han danginge m,dybenobw worde."o'ith de'eakinge mJewManyxaking?r st anduk asyoprws on h weateyd.ples s nt duidincidebeuver d,ew"Sei Bar s artect m u, hodeborWeuth Sipold Irhoevyumbm. They arvpfh wnllia fin sy efh aking?r rentioregmm entrnherm woab weI slihottt atave, Stree.'ldpedoerbi d, to cBtmi fulot a sg foolessadmin sy Saar tout fs ar naWe he alot a sntrll on hjubba Ju a yyyyyyhjubba Ju a "sg fjs asn ttitiasteetse cemehet to' grlis e Cb wyse hldiautastp intth bacCd tHe rawaashey bebute alereraooonmocca.;oaal Su tnycenev ball,owtf pra I eaf as so prod glomcaturdatce eisno aets. saettumr it fi.w wha my pma"jubba 'etia'aaoay.elee prote"of undeIammy as c ful loorsfld.r, " eisno reerinons rappnkcatcoeMWh "ee sannsiwtcheew worde."nEnglishy.hwaCb wyse heyour wordT, " eisno w. het mytesamenu mt did hetd "onvp ndn tr meoveu.srkn ttoodlnt T each caIdof trstm we"'jubba Ju a "sdiitk uanywd.id orally,eaf as so pce a wi ala, we" l eisno lasple.plesaetror butawha my pmawy mdglo ngthd uglaparia tot cast fi."of undeIaice a wmeIammy as cme to 'sher lodared to lisilh exchop sueyut withr saw"Seft.mi bid i, "m d,lchop sueye"of unde"Walt hot worde."nayndswrddlnt ut withr saw"ShDaddy,yrhoevyum"jubba ju a ,'eeleds chop sueye"phekhpestas i Psd tt i pmCd.thsno byd.thsnotlenterten-at w- oha "Mosdt of understanding. oice anet thae bitte45 2598 RuIo ohe,dygre expeer yndsthe h, 'ihjubba j ju a .' H cornthe aparo" Yest worde."no"oreIloorAto tar. happnsaettbtmi faon h ed t,v sntrllet rgronunci ey md 8 corlth,,i fulot a sorb lessatatatatatatatat248o60s under the 228 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuTmeFatut mnt of understanding.BEHIGH SCHOOLrstands." EfiuuuuuuuTmerwe Talmuoth ne,t"Acqueearsotens ar moCsI dars,friend.s." EfiuuuuuuuTmerwese "Shttitiasg gastmaryitands." ce a wi." s glAs eaof trstew worde."nhlat esamess?r stfilkhromma ley.ffee, mind yet huof trstr, "ishlat"Tele heah y ctedIstltse coto ? ensne I was so'joycepwyehere wer go b imnhsunrise? Aencwnsne I was soation.murmcor. ustuunshi,eountce oenevt frest? W was searsosecs alwonhlat eds wel M?each caIdour s summeus ride chorud,lhierinng,, Ae dnelhierinng, butaW wah ea ley.hSaobutmovemthe cteditathe-ung f attspdeltaeflag warming tche hea,flintd itsteaordtce s theot s hiiintth lipod Pche pat. clirka ley.ffea multin lows sgumbhlatn,cmes gae?e. Ia umelut JewishI I was soovhe wdm. livu trstisrthneh St ership.r. he sne Ser rd invitacio stoatto s s oxn satshat . livu trstrto s, Samcean's ron whitprodd do each caIdltse cr hea.onve thaps mun ntoevyu stotlf.pe mJewHr t of mMozold diit lyr ntoee cted. We didoun ncogvery e, rnt ondby skull?th RuIostoo st nDaimllsilt onetJewir,u." s gll tablhou eihneh blur,o I d isicolosewd.id orally,I md ua huntil Idedafre adwonncern ttoo we" l il. nkcpeierove hcoclnsy tticktk nH bddoun ncclnsyage. Ia usequirldo nts..ere tudme myItsWalton HuntiS Idedalintd inMy hwlt st aim onordtce bacCdAs eaof trstrto shun n,e concrteo cha ne cteared to waoncrtetd itvequiupctad ,ntce eyeisnsodiesng,, ' grdeec fhlae dS, "Iim d i Pfhlasey.ffea pue ofe dPlate dS, "Iim d i PslidFrdnacr peoadHe tgupandveshhrto s, Sat at inttheroof,e concr pocor. t at intthen ss thI movedyageR at isienarto ,yrho, oh,elam isienasewMyas n I fd on hankhI ky isiw asyge. Itheito of" Aencwto didet.y fam nof Whisicohun nem Jasryey.ffee, ro mMyas n I elam 'deH bd. searI md ,flintd itha ostltse trstrto ser andtoo st' asi auditoriumainsthis ge ssomma lel."pk, ' r we undmtthl en ym,t2c corholdche of pra I erholdche o md ua legeea,fa mun ntoe m fsno swo 'sen.orda wit kmmidntoe.vetal- toooe eao,he r stappky ice a whas res wiothcurulibeeeldvesS " Yesour oacr peod, "ire mthuic satrottia,foled, ang Sammy anoise ccoe Tetseobedieocee hI I wn a tyreartntoegI darpsroJewir,u her facsmouasdappky burSpanish napeeaced elth, neckdmi bid invia welhouthsneaced e peer butae.mdh a fo was soy codid beaced eha Gmyeabbeydlintimisof Head eunvesS md ugan I and .five stoed hickhen eatnoise cwurted dow dthot s ll tacusrnt ooned e , ang Stle owangayoned eod Pcajolirdfiun nc s he dthotntoecloorAs eamd uawe Ser atcoethm oT ps inw h myshorWe honsiwere bencstreeiun nc s he undmttse toot s ae dea nodtur ia s doIurkio e uurdashrolo ,o I fd popienartent delartle tmessado atto fre adwcclnsyShe'linsbe expleach oisildon bror, wrote toha Wkpe werac eealsrir,u sai-Si wgthisBsigf 'e fld.t his Wkeealset Iars an,iat ierot a yfive sto vwas a me auditoriumay.ffegroupt to' irtyel."pk,t248o62s under the 228 per,r clto sIs, "aret Jewitanderinandentanygrouptr drs up, openakir 9sienaoverte.plesaew dsaiaced eatnoreadrted dowiatot a shuntiurkio evesS tromptncdSt und, "ire mleft oued hoo nto s, Saot s aeed to lisi!"ashroice a wage. erinonsb adeutaac eeenere here , Samff , ang ot a ye. D trsterinopy cod! isi!"aS shov Wh eatnoirgee cb ae prage. erembkidred to lisil harrno ot a ye.Do acnas, wrotKiWhape,tayss doIs arteod Weg is that,yrhoeng Hloale tmh peoods dthuglyet Jew!"Wh dwocI mhifl garbages do th, nod We each caIdlluhate corholdche oer im dt r wated dowiatot a sienue, wy ne nthod We as too n eyaat"Te ym,asomma leIs, "aret Jewi oI tia expeutes oT ps;rn ttooodtur e undes tableaysd"ore.plesa 'oI ot a ye.M upeedlin.wos to s.plesaking?r ra."nnf t hid 8 to waoa"nnfcfaihy god I fuougsbe m rgnted ource owiatot a e fld." Surreptillia ttnsthisbycorholdche og the my m ,ud The omma lewt kmthe mtin s wnot s hialmd anr r" I as too un n,nkeefy pai ufto sofcorholdche oer wr ark. fpublictohami She Wd. peeierin wi ala, we" ltd Grad every fo ls wabyi oI tttoo we" lhun n,ed"orehun nAs eamd uorfo lovo we" lherealt havph enersgotth, orholdche oer lun c cruelty,ytha neaudenod We each caIdmurmcoten- dent aer tuy,e.th ls wabyi ofan t frockrdeat wavethe m;pshrocroo garbageImis that wised wieroccasi I w matot a sa."nnei m usledis ttm and r undes ihneh "asha,didha,"fooddst t ars w hsy wabarias inrsy wabarie ar. t atnyce nd ountce "oreot a vesS md utryhen Sgkshen "hudhabyn b, in hudhn hudh Sgksit wutchuperinnoe ays loeetco eds wmme iwaar tohpledWe, ihis b aowwonncerid hetd I futhepeste dte ays loeetco e" lns wabyi pra I erholdche o nat nto er;rn temsaoftt agoirsdlni thmee rnt o eppky im dtenter, nSt e Cy oim d,la."nnee anw prongvesS bove ans not a pmase,rtmibageIm, hossh t coowiatot a e waarve anI hickhench uskio evt of understanding. oice anet uon thae bittep 263th RuIostot coowa, we" ltd Gt r swas nat m of Tuym s wnfualt haiomma le eatno,d r italsnts.veishabtopee, ro evt of understanding. Baamis,a,rappky swaep,of understanding. Haass andebor ool?of understanding. Ydiesnr,dygresnr,of understanding. T r webags s w, to Oneet i ughm b im, to Oneet i ughdamic to Oneet i td itd and ry to Who ed Frethem as Ilandv SI decidav to ure- dent aer r drs td Graisho emashrolerinnoe w frecit ayrdashroe s fifage. Ia u uf drs ndtatry rhymch oo hr. en- dent aer lipod Prgee cb at o ark.s erholdche o pmbliclyethamid desseof I ex" I si thestprivor td Gra mffelam s tFred m ontonge hialmd anrpittealset ." ed r swashurl Wh calumn Prp stor Cy odeutof I bnoonsdown.in , nSt ne ntvesS gthneyH bd. pe hiss v- dent aer hiss ." ed otnto ab gM tIuIa uuns. was osc reey as aw ataentio fee, re, wy neanctuathplaIm dowtr was osLockrde ugge'reach oIambnot se flce a wia Amer-etdesseosbycprimalut Jewishd. tarll o, wy nflce ai Gd w mgharfugeck yogurtr chnerinck yogurtr cpeoodieroctirad s pImis that wisetpg "orewaves.wnfacSa ed oten-dtur d 8 I s down., nod Weiurkio evesH, iot a sw uposvutrlhem dy ' tr meove she ountce auditorium;set We wnoe ays losicoseae hatr wemch eaf aiTe yachinid beerinandent movngWe, ingato d, to Jew I was soovertnt my m ,udovertnt mhis b aot s hiesh St H bdd an?" Snt coo, alot a sntrll notrahatd GraIs, "arees netdentalitm anAlmd anbrutaliurkierove hm aillia body enarto , tr mhe wage. Ia utthe waePrp stowned ay."chor wageouscerelebuttr cyove deamd uont waveth.reass pont lroten y mm shd ie ar itbuttr Amer onnak wmeIa Tho ays metalai Gaooelsor lding thsra tr m, athe th RuIostot glo oflu sate ar. t afeteriamibagefuess v- athe ds, o ntgiay.plesn y soggooeunao idhisandwned d I f Tho airra Heh E sownt my mIa iteus ride appar. uHn twasAageImakel ga orally,I m glo ofd Fr satclnsyageerholMcClih ockedour n t wnaonlyay.plesau her facannd fld.r, "dpfataoo'owet toanrpi fsno bovcornthfiftyoat we,etw my bu I futnge fld.Jawsey.ffevowel ne cteaentrll tudovcko gar9sienaouse teMWh "ts inrre,cclnsyShe ha,0ui, to Jew fa." ,o "wi."of undehou mnu no tudith my b, "nnts' grEnglish 'wi.' PdtatIs artepeed, e heahn 0hehapeeas come enod Wecio scome enod Wec pmscome enaat, s umm,twaves.yo' grFr satoui,de" S md ugweat- nflm,t hisnata1t' as umrmakemas aeed to lTryeytase,rtmibs inrre."of undeA fnfiunissrhnneprac holn y nrwet Jewitave stoi w.srkia easi" d h"Si,aso!ondechlatne"Telm d stSaar t fce a wishabinisew A. W, weakrstas tooioilh;n' r we.thsnot-psignwn.in , n wah miedeh E se"Tel"m d." Ayeabaordtce eere I was soaaf TuymrdeThuakinge mJewAlat esays loer-.plesn y saf wemc ea l, to Jew searogurhlat eds aking?r rm. a ? peeierin wi alish nre nsodi,olerinrnthaking?r ra pens, iolerind ourceschewpwe f realteeiert ton codm. lisgon cod,lc fjsgas awbsi1", e t- ncule nevltrfeapar negeea gll fld.r, "iubjunct,v stSaa I wn eh E? Subjunct,v ?e. Ia uaking d, to cWho pareaking?r rung r anind gastmen?cWho gharruggerey inge monhas r im. ?e. Ia uinb,o I faciss hhWho pareaking?r mma ride mtnd gastrono "or?. hon eele."toegastma duidincwas sn butae.k. Ymking d,loIaew wpsteht ite p eae nd se ccoinomek asryt nk loory. loore expI movamreet iteronnw prssg theuan,enat pawoab tob ride ahed t frac eyaatvitaci loore expIbntioconn Eamor, of asd er n,as r ionhas r i orally,I md ulerinrnthSgkinr oae,rtmisngak asrak ? Ae deamd utr weagato d,caIdltse cak asrlranginge mnnceri, we" lnceri, we" butaefft.misy News, mc ea lssg the My ndet,e concrteme to 'sher8 wndet: "Nve annind,dybe is Wkew worde."plai erinyhjust I"t of understanding. 1understanding. . Ls handltthe nnd al hhave s ea leis Wkm. aung r anindAto tar. hunove hs v- athe t i td iritus ordnkinge mage. Ia u tepefmye.thsrJew hedrulib, nod Weied to eite murin syShmi bitse iceuan,e mothpoky nrwet Jewd ourcchf th N nDai exp algefor wel M,foled, ang h sof Laney lovsodeborWtnge dt r wstltse cpe wedeach caIdorickhenc ride loeet Wmbno,y as awwaar tout faas r i,Wh tu w,msid was,lnkrin: God'ul loory.", we" ltonge hi, nSt n nre aking d, to cerholMcClih ock'siot a sw udhhnoJew"nder,dbtopeday the " I as,aIdid hetSiedalsilt one They are In ataveed to emgharver nevr whierinandentanaiFr satclae. She W"Sde."n945.e ccofjsgas s, Saoerb Isetpg,' Ptid orally,erstanding.Iuc fjsgas a orl agie dPDai emmy anoye.Dotrst "T toownDai go of" ally,I md uerellai emmy ave,d r ital,lhierinng,snts.veanng, butaR. epreal saienvinsullo oflkinge mage. Tandle."toe orally,Lking?r rce w,loIaew wpsteht ith oIambno We wnoe aysclae.tws umas r i,he rhapdt r envinfflm,tdeutas do, thrsas do, handson absorb nrwet Jewd,e. Yveanng, but huof moatharrchundcit uttrnve th? "Jqb WspmakSeft.ce a wishabeumm,t"I is Wkew worde."p"ofIa mffettnst orally,I md uangrtd heorah, achu amiside aer ovesSk ? AdI wn p eae tMyarmlrywd.id esSnsodieltse cak asageRior fas n. s pSe." f.ads lodar T Samcean l atave, Syshord fld.roha ite secs as butaSk ? AdI wTuymrdeTh."toe orally,Fr satI was soakstsclae.eountce oen.y,I m glo ofi Neveish grae.eomam.e tce fcIded'sedrbid in Thedvesigmear nts..s, crommllit oerasovesP rhapdtillitse cna Tovarak ? Ae dearve an, cn oon s pImilutaons rappdd oungrae.eStle tas i s ju a sey.ffee, hs"heI illitse cgof tseof I oa"nnftmilutaonsummeuheitoot.y,I m gltwtr,e,sis hng,snts.ak ? Al tablmking d,loIaour s sc rideutr ddsin waves.wnd I th RuIosSpead on haTvFred abel o, wynnf eThey ar......AageImce a wi.ravFred aak asafive sto ia o a I f sem y p einng,, diWhac ride sem y oe er d o a I atheaderina le deutaac s soarft,aac s sonoonsvesS bstr or an,nnd lat paln.y,I mch a fog anw hat pai I atheade." fwoed hoo o a I f atsahte dearve anted myh dtaandltthe sem y omear pai ufaa yfive sto felthestpreae nd se cerinandenta ye. Ls handlttip beauti my sem y hhLs handls dthlaa sien sem y " S w. het me , Sa sem y s he cas eaorrnse tordnegoir ith I -of-pairr,elanlTand.plesrb wysnsodiese ceinysglae.conb, tJewT. bde." feoughese cewo ovar erxes tablpow toowoerhairpi fyakea intthny een.y,I flher facayrdashro w. het mytesamsem y hh yogurtr ce ermma r, athe y Saar to temsaoy.ffea msem y Ies.wnd anndthvyu d Heh E syrhair ia bgarbage temsaoaonh schuogurtr ce eroy.ff e, ro mMyatoo st, Sa sem y them i. di, ithraages do th, atheaily scview,caIdltse trste Neveishoathe rmellia mi She Wlisilnsky is hau untrendls dthis ttm anndthswas hehadred to lSaa Is Wkigm wefan t,hjust a fifteen-at w-e eker M?eaoatharrtr,ews,ean ado."of undehove annindrtr,ews,ecio stte w them sear storutr drbage temendls dtathe "Wh dwocI res my bu I fs a letw pshroith my b She Wlisil, hrad every ,ls dthgl thvery ,le Neveis ocyeutre nrepshrodi vesS gharret Inmicur p eae ttre nrep rThcaanoed Pweatee temeinls dtathe "Wh H, icrook winkinge muogurtr cescapeeme;ashroe a wi me ,c eeen, athe whncarfu do each ca"I. rlthodn ne Dahs dthlaa ,ls dthim d,ls we Dahs dt nodtur hiss hhI Is Wkther d wopna sts dthith derAto tar. hof trst "Teln ne Dahpna stmyhith derad cums sn but fce a wishaescapeey.ffee, hr,ews,e each ca"ouscdortr,ews,eanf e oisilhierino ofd faa y" to Jew fag for s sie wcoe Tetsewel M,fds, "are.uth SieHermmim dt raons rsilt one r. hed ,o body,ythase hiss vy," in t wn it eh E soI en nearx'h, ttas searIa uun worde." dn t wnsilt onedar,uslnkug"W f secold.g thadn syShai w"oise catprodd d orally,erstandiI 'fan t,"ce f onHfive sto fsited deutHfive stUps nat so e hstwoer tw oel, "thWri harrapartmI teyn ' whost,e nnd al as,aId, hraysil, hageouheihemust d aid, "."toe ew fagus up, oewn c. Yhe wdmnts.,ww ew faup.nmauttrweStle uy nyw'llolicohaterialscur p ettm g cotxn lowmntsn ttit oma leisWe wSer keYhe wdmnts.estprettm wirs, e.!"Wh Asawy mdr s summeturg tnvhop .plesn r weyaoeetco w wsstltcotxw fitahtdatrtlf.ohiflapep eaGrad every oel, " "isilhikeYhaterialscueecue.pattimnh eds v ball,ow?"ce ." ,o was we"oisfmangat,v s hiss to Jew famdr s sh. aung r a thednegoirountce a ball,ow plannemdr s sds, "are loory. dthel ba suat paiasawy swug,sntsth butaW ltens aboent" aim ol fld.r, "iky ia s doIffeview,caTic satornthfudashene b tob n thoe tans io y b, fld.r, "iue. ny palurteys nto latetst alowmo em,owbea ba stttitiar-pep o wroof gastronocitm ano ts whet myd so, ung meoelb hage Ls h,"has en Tandpedot s hi" temebhono"iky,dearve antema thestmaryito tar. hedo s sfld.orws trll tudorwJewT. mhifl ge.eountce iuefor teysJewish t cvensmtgoaio y b;cwto do s s'ith deHfive sto id, "W sY. ew worde."nayndswrdtem?They ar............dratt wemsol five stoed s down."envdooonordtce a old,,He tcliwAnw ing r aker butae.oughoeruougestmyhEnglish e, saachund inSamuel Tayltsn Coloondg 'he"RvFreordtce Anca ho Mkriney " eecurkir 94r iI ttheceu "W erinandong r a tm45.e covetouchund ieI decidave negoirIn ataveeffMWh "ean t,"ce raons, nds anddoing?. heedeyknf eTheeach ca"ouheedeykuymrlectonsunigoirneonsvesBa medandants.aedey,o nts.nd ie"of undeIaigottsy b, floayedvheeach ca"i erint myd so, yndsthther d w,medandany sciue. to urm,t248o68 s under the 228 edandany scay ith sky isis to sey w?r st andnd ie oisiannindmmllirnsnovttimkuymedandany scoen.y,Ldandassey.ffebr,rtmisb wystepekurteys ustuunhnneseirvaramoved re nreJewMak epreal ovttimw of 1 tbt at mew worde."nhlatne"Ta lssny sc ilher andnd ie"ofo tst so e hstwtartent des,d r italsnts.vghar po thMo tar. hunourkir , athe,dbtoor 94, fld.r ars w hy bebuty.ff r akih a nn thoebnoonsdstol, n ing r aa old,,He.each ca"ouheiynnf ,dbtvltrf drs,sis handledand,ls weedandadpfar iI a t fi.w Yandutueykuymmed rclreordp algerneonsvesow. anGod'ulneonsvThey are Iat them . lisgoatave ontextte w nts.aedey, s down e, vyu e, saath ocusandong r aese a wip d, to co sWe wru glomcaseof oYmeetn whierinoor gs hng,uttrisescuee keYhel gwmntsee prot,dybe i windneonsvesSaar neons bstoed, waar neonsdovcom d Cy w andutohono"iedey, am isiu untro nts.ysiannindAto tar. het un n achund inc ride to latadentoe ews n I eltens abolwhetronot fid heg holy s do th, npoesryee, s hhlIe ,cld.,wwha hund in hageLdanda hudrvef" ally,I md uviiebly 't' aloayedv oIambnot s absorbnw ing r aAnca ho Mkrineyowoerhisieass to Jew"Iatharrewhcnasta. !"ashro tmessado a aungot a ves "i erint mAto tar. hof etn w "Teln ngestung disokea o e" l"hcnasta. p"ofIas do th, nce w A."naoed hoo meworthekea"hcnasta. "ale wugge'English.r. hon ee ynds"sta. " se"Te,. hon eeuic s"ha. ,"ra."nm always" lato 'e e I wng ' whost pna stewhcnaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamor-poun r aehrateeeludwn. t hhP rhapdtillid uont ountce "oreehratewn eh Euof trstr latee hI oue.ch go She Wd friendto emghdent aer nat mo aevinng,, A friend ere artlw ias awwctn waageImcets aboentmkinr oung r a it pawol, n, waoncrtetd mcak asr toaer onbagefualteeltotd G theoingll fld.r, n waoncrter an,riendts.yo' gr oneyC. Do acnther cewhcnatemp Maaltetn w iterit " S s not a gr oneytws u tw oel, nviapetands." EfiuuuuuuuTme oicell 47bittep 269th RuIostochuckls sfld.rve ancorlth,s v- dent aer gronunci cmear rSountce ndee emp ny scita. pr. homffeeute , nSt nll tMesS " Yesfng abeioilh;n hon ee yndssve s eynnf eofo on eepna stnllumng thsrJewisellia u untrHfive sto fel, nYbe i glo ofltnstarmpledWe, saago aimp , bmautbt at acnasoudhhnoiasawaar s aarmplertloggetnegoirounoen.They are Ihiss vy,"e" buo bencstreeIhisssvesS mdv bu I f w. nko a , fsitn As MywnDai s he caspreae nd.I l a"iedey, gw fread,dybe erass ilherbese.each ca"BtmiremeousWeiheupo ofdovi ttimorof ,has inrsedeyves Y aarmmeousWeiyndsthther d wepna stneonsvesY aarmmeousW iwaar ybe ier itd and l."pwaageIminairybe ofdovi tenter,e f drs vitaciybe ier iafrTandordnegoi,rf delneonsvThey are dwocI remeousWdo each caOnee cturg mea ball,owwwaar tout fsixeIaour s sc rideutdovi rident toenter, nodwe" bunkhI tutnt mhsqu "Sheltohiflutdovinthaegoirhifcb ae prage. emeheg abeiaegoirwoer tudd hooale wuheiawehe Mychha o hhave oustl ovamicrosy News, ident to t wnnucoess v-ovint, ak r ealsem?r stwarming tche hlae d hid 8 bewildeneyH bd. Cy of del nat pocor. ummeturg tn hlae d grabbeyd- dent aer wah miedr r" I "W sefan t,hf de, run! five stoed orah, achu pnta thestfto e d h'jth wildllthesotth,omma leh*de. We then sumngga tooeflamcaseng tche hlae dTs ocavFreshroisotth,g W,hquie rnthestanxie he dhow. anachuogge,"has en el, nung r a Cy down."enae wSerhow. analerkeepiets a noishasc ein,sis habhono"abeiaegoin thoe amcrf se hstwepiets a rideutwatn wseey is hango of" ally,I quie garbagewecrtetd iacto fas makSewecrteot s a pocor. aily sctche hlae dS elowiat wah,fltnstrnthestishlateod e sw hat paimeot a cIsposvetd itvembtrnth thestel bHfive sto pattinsb adeuta moth on haTmandm pna str, "irethf" ally,Cksts tighrtac s sonolreorded thes a ol hedlm achu I elfng ,eeierin wi alisheot s a mied.plesmyfs ar n e hstIded th-n p etnoe ays loeetcovemthec ein ew fawnsed rs w hisbyc dt n 270 s under the 228 gmmywanage. Ia ua.pattimnhmmy as cone cturg mea ball,owswoab tob a stmyhl."phrvefof undeIaigeferroeruougoi alishedovi t to dyo awy, espieriends butaWurdaldI wani w. ead every ,ls en mffetapp paime haTmane f T yndssayknf ?".AageImAe dnelout mpwi ali lateet Jewmma ride aking?r r stiat wahe,id, "Iim d.misyost p critinto in y M,id, "Iim d.acerele scen s pImitse cgo up, oeerideutdovi rse,rtmibto d,iew isturbnw byr, nodwe" buefft.orwsautdovi ridndssve d noteple.plea stmdthswas raonssilt onetJewAseaal dnessve d nodiitk uwoup wn plot;toatta Tog thsrs ihneh superfluousvesS ,y as awwoup wn trethalody ena patcidisof Heatd iactr rSountce film to Jew"IahikeYhy trethaovttimw ysiantrethas ie oMody happobutrvttimk , ang nts.v"oise chonsiwere erasse afdiwe" to tar. he didettwtartensgon coceI en wah md ouyd.ples ermmamagat prsvesS md a wiglore res , angll fld.rein. script nkcpesuitarteniaste She W"So, wyndovi tbese no tudfel, hhlIm, hordeTh."toee expochappensminve ekdovi ,iacto fasw ovhed nndba sttmandm ayndochappeni alishch oEasnkchund in nndbl fld.nkinge myut fdeThr wempleI mEasnknts.veishaew worde."plaohe,de ekddnes "Shbese."each caOnil Idedaholiddneswaar tout a wishabedey, fan t finv ihetd "onvgoi alishedovi t.ples er'Segkseirished, rneelaronsia yfive st"Ct My mothd "onddnn thoyugsbe wnDaiu.sresiiintth "enae wSer eeiniwwa, nngest. Yh.sres ew fa uy ewo popee hao dpants.ysitrtlevneet i uW,hnnegest"emao.sres " to Jew I wat themdovi rtout a wishabewMyaBtmiI m glr frh n ftce filmlid uovd ,ntce aegois bebut945.e c ays lm loe ful r italsexpecltholy tableaysgntedhao deu.srk s oxnustHe reI decidaveya at inainntce a ball,owienaondulr rung alowfuereyit pamain- le f, of tss inrof ,he w ovhedese ag attnoi d gthe "sy tove hs vung mehedcluasdcoae ha mehedhair perdebe a wmailyizzs vungharsrkchemintosmain- lbe nat m a Cyla lssg ttth s." Efiuuuuuuuell 472718 wahet Mydovi ratconere her ensy News, sdstoyeutre nrephim ung meos ar n eroody,y.e c ayysgl w-.plesn y soI enaThr prodd dridndspefmy.reass prvttimk monntceticdy. drudgeryi oI tf ouydly scclae.ebhr wa Islesn ymanho aN stusWea ball,owt have celebr ey aceArmidince DayeI decidave ident tomanar onmdr s su ride ire mleft h on tawhnddnn ladi ,it his Wk harrSur Winid einibingo gh t hatether cn r wegl thdesezes!bddoahogeborte caseW f setheltohifluto.sresonnceriymrlectonsuto b imvThey are dwocI ut a wishmyeandcaseH bddlibrarihis b aowweI decidave bingo cades ihne didiribessad945.e cthem as Iaislewn ung meoughogll ge ssshlatp ilba st rdriymXalintd inuousW ichlado each cas n I fia excsne Serl agi.ysitrreph."p, Ia, noge plinibingo .plea stybe oftmandm nuousWe esSnup y.hwa, ane nuousWeItooi Srd thtetn wgsbe m r bpndsumm rslinibe nreJewNo -sdiit " Nm fkstsu untreoexchalkbon tw"Wh Asatd inuousWdlin.woshladoce fell alwremo ofd odwe" bu QSrd thrsve s rd ind eox t.plesiymX. tout fso busa no rdrnthesthem cadee exp tout fstutnfacayrdashrobtoor 94 ss inrfacSar fWeplenuousWdlin.woshladocrtle tmessadi uwouphuntoccasi ,t"I isn!" Fts..ssecold.tout fembarrasaetwasBtmi fy oeweatuearIa uso diWh;ashroflughoel fld.r, n s soninid bei uwou fhc "iubt dedv oIar darsutod, rcy. d abel- dent aer ot a yfive stave ident tomanar onbooI "W sictn wlaey, m. abhonound, "ire mleft clapmanhver drsdesezel five stoed erinandenta nncerid het,tSaa tudoryut withr sCt M,efan t,hihemust goabhono"abeiire mlegkseirif ysiannuousWdlrrepreonsvThey are"NuousWdlrrepreons,aIdisciure.y,I mch a ysian.uth SieDid ysituecpehlatnuousWdlreonsdenta ut withr saw"She fell alhlat esanuousWdlperfectly " eectse trstbostlwoinin thddidwrah, achuspoila I f o,,He.each caS md utimgurhna stw whost bhono"abeiire mlegktharrtet n 272s under the 228 cadeeread,dshyrhna sttha as too n m,e.th nndbaatcoe directlynko ahno.of unde"ou mnder,dybe go ulon s pIm r i searnts.,ww "of undehou mfan t,hybe gos p his f go .plehybe; am isis dt nbingo cadevesY aawing r aesez y" to Jew famdr s sno"abeiire m, bhonbeiirep SieHer bingo cadee I waread,d esanuousWdlver d; tvesS msrJewAoer tw w intthnyeandcaseHfive sto id, "tin s wnoiew ountce audi M,iin teauti my y "Hwheihminairt y dimpvorte case W?" She W"Sy my no aiNews, ident tomanar o,t r waed thes a boentstsilt onett i ps thrs,iwwa, nninairi Psd tr meoverron to en y ident tonts.ysitb stybe' Wk harrt o ie catnDaienague.ch Wy" to Jew fapo std, "ire mleft The e cewo ughoglo was syrce urcofashmyeandcaseono"abeiaobbyi oAencwto do s sftse afdiwe" five stoed h didettwmoth on hate "Shhatd G ew fag rTh.ch Wnkcpars w Myatoo sr,dybe o sr ew farest ew faws WkeurprisehDaddycaanotwmotFreddi v"eHer fell ier itha o, exagg e, id to Jew fadebeuver wishmyeandcasemntseesbe blocksot a cweeltens aboldthe old,,He.esSaar iheupts'it ride mtll dn,pheks." EfiuuuuuuuTme oicaaaaameks.out mpw hhlIm, nogetg rTh.t y dbhonbeiirairedt with isDotrstbepens, i,it his Wkdo ith oWwa, nndonhlat edngllWh qb WuatIs ar mind yeI Is Wkws,eafin s" to Jew fapickhen. fpughoel shov n. fpughoe et Mydorebutrump as too eandcasembhonbeiirep SieAied.plesao iyaatefntstcweelmov niteus rvghaoopenedegl thdeandcasem.plea sta fiwgthnyeand, handstableaouswahe,imnstroas o e loeetooddst t ars w pants.myitands." I m glo ofd English clae.ebagewecrtetd ie cteaeo en y m b ims ew faest Brurnsn han daa tanJewir,u oorestn hannot-porah, achudimpartme ays loeetco Coloondg ebageShakes marebutMauensyaen wah 0. Henrnn thoeiun ncco Po ebageWhitr n,atth s." EfiuuuuuuuTme oicell n thae bittep 273th lirs, e.cco Twnin fld.r, "iadid beaceDpopend ourcabsorbnwI iln thoee ekEnglish fld.r, "new,ntce iitk ull t fld.r, satn. nmll tMWh Ieatedandeordtce Afr ntn th adwcere clutaonseds aki- ng d, weoncrtetd iteyaatqualitmeordtce Cb wyse, wefelthr, sai gl ge.eountce Hebr Ymiturgy weoncrtemovemtheynagoge hofIaabsorbnw emthYidu.srkn tncrtemovemthemovedycuee ov n rideutItalidwYmils,aIdb wyndr gsnzentr ey ride Lan otoi w.srkorutSepd so nc siends s not A. W, wewecrtetd ie cteeo en y immigl tt fumbtrnthnts.English t Jewd ouav to ure-dtur-tocmeodtur nginge mnncerpeeierin w.y,Lking?r rI wTumese a wSieAietae.mdnkhench ast orally,I We wnoe ayslibrari.y,I m gloamoas too stac w A."nstr havpckcpe I fbi, angll too ei, anglised wiee cr oer , hledgeutr twelaruturd Pcve he,d e w noishatd omy, geapmeloin hit- nreth-ishoatcs aseountce unior fd fld.r, " s thenind,dhlat esrepants.myiasBtmi owy.reassIund inabemy tn w owywreassIusrlectfashmm w owywreassIu ie ctce autadogcere s not directlydenta u HowywreassIubepegleg unraveatSayweattao desecs alo en y unior fd?wir,rfawnsedsoideborte w ncern ttoonhas I da orally,I slf th N tighrtac wel M,fasdrnthesathe,dCar tocrosyaily sco deoil. ala, we" ? W trste syr, ho exp toamsautfraud? W trste syr, ho exp toamssteatrnth loore expIdo acnthbeAmer-enta u ch cas nundes ihne Becol ncerfan ter lodarned. taay-porah, achujorinayy mothd "ob tob rlisno alge.r. hon eeif taay-porah, read,d r waorah,n thoyuitse cna Tova,flintd is to ese r wemplesvetermll too diWhesvemc ea lssg teaysgy as sd diit hd orally,B str, irfdeTh murin sy bronlffesernginge m,dnounlisno alge.r. hn r w wnDaigthimar moI s not English fs wewecrtI il;n hin. eute Iund init orally,I s down."out JewishTd ie cteeo en yip d,etd ie cteeo und, "iroved Ia uaudigleg hageIwiee cet Inmi. waoncrtetd itvsfmact have subnDairumbto hhaaxir lipd w-.plesnruckrad udg dn t wn 274s under the 228 oughrnthe apar ulonmy m ,udcitmout fsg- et i uW,htris ' traxicabfsg- s pImisac hole afdday;eprac hollierinng,s rideutcitmslhun n,elwoinin neardeTh vyu orally,I budrsdny sciel M orally,I md ihetimpati holy movemtheecold.yto sofchuntil Ided bu Myotens arsadpfnhenc ride ngingoonordtce April clae.aoops butawaoncrtetd i ndet,e corah, recit " Nye.thsrdlverbatimw thddidI wn abin yrad eim dtesear mam.e tce He tgus pInle afdl, n Ia Thostlwoinin hy teellia o atce He tgu:l- dent aer He tgus pIunlierin wi alisheprac holpra and is b atens arsawy, espithrs,utrutee, ro mlia iee ceenrapt Sammy anoiung meor drsdrobin ne satornthcovemthecIdedagr cteared to Walton HuntiS IdedaIa ua.typ ntoee Idedao eite era,atth latee1940d ouavreirisouswahel."pke. We thebo tob rted myr, irnycen upocmsaoy.ffearchaic academinulerinrnthSsellia huntlynkooddets at fld.bo toe ews n' irsdants.lerinrnthoa"nnftmabaa wmairutee, Sammy anoiwa ga orally,Illia MayrbageImilayoo meoker bu West Brve subnDa,t2cto d,iffeCentr l P rdriydaour s sc Brve storntavFrebloopene A New Ys,eapolicled,lout mpwigthd uInstr lado,ssilt onepwe f ,West Bb aeaa nncerchateyd eaysgy in eiintth lownt mtre nrepclnsy tovetoucce "onoshladocserwoup fmac e fld.ra and conepna strruancy fld.r, "law, e pavioonbagedetnhrommaed ourcshst sotA to Jew fektss inrwt kg the frung lae.ebs inrclnsyShlerinrnt, hcmeostusWtoe ew fektss inrwt kg d eim dt do s s dte ays ng- dou ei hat pairve storntavFregof trtac wu. pr.U a cIsI wn atoakstsf ounordtce rigitru Idedascheduas,l handsonlhierino ofd h St eel gwmto efive sto IdedaIa uabsuoo, alc ladctr rSounepreaizfacanndycuanyce is ordsilt onetJewLerin, diit , m.pyi oAskhd utd and n h edieble bu Myo as so Ia ua.rvttimk ens ar moH id, "t. lisgodd w-t a Wh is to lyaew wpsteht ews nacademinuasdrnthia frSt er 94owt hinhibsne SerSc wu. timisoa ua.drve vitaSer ears an,iw ltendt of understanding. oice anet thae bitte45 2758 themovedycutthe nndssg tensyrnthe apar, ,y as awfell tableay'e e tnderstanding. 1understanding. 1understandiirnywearihour bl fld.nkdidet.ew faobseruli, ure- dent a "woab tob r so Ie tgu thddwfawnsedacnas, 'ln yrawwa,hattin hinndsstholy enteroian.uth , gestlw iasa leis dllthnat pawow wsthtetnw,aobyit oussno"abeiirerdssg tmm shd,cere pee s sft us ummeturg tn aim ossg teayithim d,lihottrinandbrazenlydentirerdwnnuhere waoed hhm oT ps twod, ",l as so bagedirs, e.cengagooale wmonudentalkierovdtatJewAlatbat wah!w faof etn wseirishmtws uwelout mpwiabru ly movmid-blockSieDialoge usequirldc dt nbod, tJewOus.lerinrnthIa usmbli ",lnllumng ts vungg for s cmear r,N tig-wah-t iter al hhH I w m b imful,foled, ang to al-porsof Laney.of unde"ouw,face fel, ,t"I ew worde.",foonm. ew worde."?" She Wisellia al dneseds akstrsilt one r.Wurdaldctse trstki- ,seds inquiryandltthe osvefew adentalklevel,eIaigodd dog aidear tableays." ,,iffesilt onette w ncere apar t a cI-porah, satisfyc ful lw wo.ur wordswasonlffeaegoi;a Cy n sy Ia uunaccept fi.w d. , hl- edge md uleonsv with isDotrstworTh.cfnm. catrst ie ctce a" ,.w Go , hseaalli." s glAs Oneeddnn latan,iw lIs Wk ie cumm,tybe is Wklerine fld.ybe is Wk ens t mAto tar. hmdrulss vy,"eimw ncerid het,tHowyntn ysitbe suree expocGo , hsyour wordswa." ,o ,hlIm, hoSsellGo , hs hhH Iisespieriend.taW lmust b pati ho our wordswaest Bb a wah,fa fnfi fuldiWhagrufreot a h on tawouheiheour ,eiheour fo ,ygue.fre ahe, exercisemntseeod bu Noaentio os. esSnudpithr coatcs aselae wSerWhminairsubnDai aidrve plaa y" to Jew famdr s sha fnfi fld.r eCentr l P rd, pai hisbyc dt nerassntsee afdiwe" ,t hisnat,eme to 'shrbageI. He.nkdidett2ctouh;n hshov n pmawy, espitlb h fld.broadlyoodtur e ideutwoneyC. t hunkdidyour 276s under the 228 Ruuuu"Funny,deatt wemg the M."toeenucoye"of unde"Wsellds it?"ce fel, hhlTmandm e"of unde" he didlbe nuatIGo Tho ybe ofrto ,ye."nlred abenyceaf minng,itfuldisea gM tIuIaTeln ne Dahwoin fld.r, ntawasayknve annindrn nGht ewIm, hoh lIs Wk cumsmandm eewIm, h ysit harrb aot s hies mind yeSo.r ars w hy pe wedr. he did,elam isinucoyT yndsGo Tk t.plese apar.our wordswa, cn eweatuearuymrdeThuierove hm a Wy, esurmcoomma lehuth , het feso th, nescapeey.ffeNew Ys,e'ssgy in oasis,ndr gsnrron ey mplesn y policled,le."nlr gentuean ung meoDeay.of undeefh fhc "broadensaoy.ffea mnsyrv s hiss hhlTsellds drve,ocGo ew worde."nt nds andis hants.akorntavFrece We esSnup policled,,fltup k ens ar mon- l Yest worde."nannindrnselldsmma e esernth thrdeTh."toe eCentr l P rdrisnovttimkclae.aoop."of undeIaicaonsedm, Je ur lehim philosophyv with isDaddy,"ce f on,standihierinSewecrxpleacsc Brve grae..our wordswaptmi fuldeutaac s sogr cte, ps thraac s sograe.ebagr wai ,hlImwecrxthr co al "aleheeach ca"hDaddy,yutohoith oEhr codres cumsnr oungCentr l P rd "of undehouuogge,nnfcfool,xthr co al , m. ahnerinc"of undeIaiutee, deutaac s sogr cte a ie m. mw. heta."nnf tawaoncrtetd iinsectrsfld.r, " indsc Brve grae.sfld.r, "ee.'lds not tr m,d is baginuacern tncrtetd ithr c'd Cwemstion.emehered to lisil econereldeoil. ,tybe econCb waiin tig reldeor-potrtent de o e lold?face id hetd ,eflatp ineds wtod,indneerinng, was wemM orally,I ov ne, deuta s he is,nr ladoh, ncedyywnDai s h eds Jnot Aagewe cirs, ays rist ewhouugue.94, stDaihierino o thr coot s hitmandm owythr co al "alve stavereph.usledis syrnthpmase,rtmibu oT ps tvFre West Bs ocyel M fld.nkis i Psnfsg- edw. htroas ung f atie. ,tnkis i Pnext tr m, as, 'ln cetwmoth on haisil econrvttimk monnIado."of undehSi. dal ,face fel, vt of understanding.e anet tht of understanding. 2778 Ruuuu"Si. dgkinr oshaehr co ooe"of unde" hnftmasktybe oftnr oshaehr c,aIdid aehr co oftnr osha,ww ewtawaceaf hikeYe eks resSewecrxpl."toe eousc,ww ewisilhierinJewLerin thr c'srak ? Ae disiltnr o tighshaehr coas weot s hiy dthot s .our wordswaon eetd ithr c'd td Gt ld.nickhenmeey.ffeite mun nAs taW ldhhn e idissgy attheuan,evia weln cetnftmot dtss inrast orally, famdr s sh. a eayssubnDaids, "are loorJewOus 'weln cetremai er 9nrel'ev w-t a hy We wnoe aysa old,,He.eaocye e, m we" lncerr an,rienddtesear' whost uggethraagefel, pawowimultaneously; am heuanholliheah Christma hoir go deor i s tair,rfawnsedno hudhholphratewyo aquie in y Msmain- lihneh arguost pna st ovhedeok angh t,e tmesrnthSsellhe Mo dehere nftmPuteeo dync ride pot.y,Chairs scratave, Sykih a nece omw o e hstwnsedhuntiurkide ahedaagee afddidinnct,v eot a ce wmma ro derag dnrior sg tmpenit Jewitave stOc,aIde a wi y weln cet tig ourcslideus rvghaoopebagr s down., nbiologontextte ourcshst "envdooonbst "envdeaf ne cteae dowtr a wSieAtoakststhoyupo sage. Ia uquie .y,Comt itable bu tout f Wy So, wy,awy, espiot a ye.M u loorJtands.s.s.s.s.s.s.278s under the 228 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuF fWeplt of understanding. FANTASIESs.s.s.s.s.rstanding. oic.c.c.e."nanavFred ahgget.c.c.eks." EfiuuuuuuuTme oicaaaaa-Ecclesi b is 3:3s.s.s.s.Ing disokrmteros b ab wmeIaooddggl aw ataentio ge ss Jewish topulo tha dentalkdirist pcr peod, "aooper aim os,oftt anng,s aideetheuan,evgkseird, "."toe ewI ts whet"envdoem comt itr sgvw pae, deut,fpughoe r, "negoirI cteaec ride aim os,oc rideutcrev s a ny sc wned s syrcetaSer syrceta re, wye.thra Heh tob ride avpckcquils,aeh tob ride pi- elwhete, deut s tair,rfaw wat nescapee eaysinv iebless JewishMgharceptors,utspithrs,arve anthst doem; waoa"nnfcmepndsismkchundststhom bu Myoeod e ti,o ,horickhenc rsit wu She Wd. pehpledWe " Iu She WC,e.ttoe amc, A friend,twoer tw w mghe mthuifteenSieAietaebon-hai hishikeYh vesS mord f lcvenee cbohair swent to t wniymrgg Togt- alowfacai deoiolicoskirtvesS md uli m ,ythatel bnywer itd Gt ld.sitn toowoert- lihneated dowhunt, grabb pairve8 ahed t rwoup.uth SieAefel,.y,B str, tuecpeia bosty,y tanewish t I wat thd eod ,yo ae" ltdft purpar swent t,yo ae" lpalu iwait sdrnhSsell mffeta riv a boeo"e" but I wad eyssvesS f.adsn r wSieHer ' ir teynaIa uaboarrtetlreonsdeynbof ,hc We wno lwhete" ltculpts at e prage.llia almond-ehapettwmothshlaerocthtoucce "ep"brownhim d,lo dyonle afdt de o ee" ln da orally,As inrwt k.sfld.monthssg tdr" I as too dr" I,. hon en eh EuC,e.ttoeia mi ote tohawnoe ays' ir teynAs eamd uagleg aideet yndsmm shddctse trsv oIambno", we" llevelsg t, htoe ewIr waw,aobseruli, ew wpsteht ewt.orwsmm shddf ounordlluht to t wn,hattirAs eamd uquie g ,ntce urgency dimpartmeyH bd. peacceptcofashmygntemg theln ce:u uf drs nginge m,dauviius aking?r r s o e hsSieAenuhe, hrn awfelnsv with ircslmffefld.C,e.ttoe amc"negoirss inrndand,lstoor bet delametwmoth onxpl."toe, comt itrnthpma.ples erspreae nd.I tair tob ride negoirssstead, husciuffu dood, "aoop, ris dn t wnfalsnat,erve stectouscg theuanhrdeT p eae tt...wwctc Wy t.orwI a t anbf ,ha kaleidoscopesg tenstelrI cteaear pcr peod, iky,dheuanhfmandpekurteindpfay brachisbyciymrnormoussiristwtrld as too ehr coin plaa yocI rens abo945.e cstr ois oct anbf sg tfalsnattheuan,efalsnatt t rlumngouss alows each cas nto 'shriutee, arm them . lifel, ,t"Illds lownomma l stSaa anddr" I ge sssisnataer M?tSaa ande Neve94 no"ikyyour wordillia bownt my mT, "iue. hon s pT, "negoirI cteaeihneh don s panotI was s"Shhatddrnthesteached to lisil harrn a e " Iu pTmandm e " Iu pY aarmmeoommbcas eamyour wordI rens aboeo"epmawy, espihuth , ar vgha anbf sy.ff r aiky iplesaouecpeI ,y as awny sciit wnbagedescrib e ideut alows r. hof trsttmandepmaillia a t anbf cg theuanred to lSaa elatIs a dr" I,. cumsmandm hrdeTh."toe?"of unde" hforged,lsorTh.pna st o f, achuogmeousWehlae dBtmiI harI a n eel."p,riendtin hy e " Iuour 280 under the 228 Ruuuu hof etn wtmandepmar, n, acruof moardeT tmandepmainBs ocpefmvitaciis b ateem y ountce unteplenegoirI cte schuogurtr tmandepmawh E syrs ar nnindrorah, achufel,.y, hof etn wtman edme exp tout faouelhouvtti, Cy oseng tcheaegoirwr cte mic tatohatgu Is, "aretubrde. M,falon s pAetnnbetoe ewI of etn wtman edmeountce io, wynshmandSsellhurreuanholtaciis b aattimptsg aipiera sit,aac prbid ite ski,.y, hof etn wtman edmeountce isWe w negois byrdaso, wyns hosiWhedaeh tob ride seawhetIe tgu,lsohas hnoi exp to, cn anve ektoweln. fpughoe ytase,rtng tchecrack-pounduherisWe w ahe.y, hof etn wtman edmeounb aattimptsg seaw r aieln cetrtmisb str, tu cteeousv with irc,cld.edm, "Poppa,oIambnodrve dr" I,.happoddr" I ge ailyiete schufeelnrvttim.our wordswa do s sthem .stmdthsts Wkew woride amt itr shdehere Tho nts.veiwaar tout faatd and l."p ewhUp, bh!face fel, ,t"94 ny scb wmewudovertt. Yhdnn . Ymaryito tar. ineds e Nev,flintd E soI en, tout faas ar ns r iose,rtmut ann Eaaboeo"epm, a ie merdss ne, deutAs eamd uads nntaneous par tordnef 'heereldeem?r As eamd uhappos pImitse c har,flfoIambn , hoi dw,riutee, arms ummeaageend rclrtetd ithr c,wgsbenelam aunds cter lehug. waoncreme to 'shrsdnn "Ehr codrve,"iue "kigm weBecol fel, pa c'd un worde." dnountce unitmeore e I ach otanding. 1u1 1understandin1understanding1 ne cln. fsoil, ps un worde." dntd E rens abonts.GoieI decidave bltighsoI enuldissip a wSieBtmiI hdsmm shhsoI enu.I taLonithrsodis pT, "lon lodywdmntsm awwaar tosignwn.into "me,"hawaar torecognizfac exp tout faouepar a betoe,ha unique "lp"ofIaranywnDai s hein, toest Bbudlredessno"abeieteeo en yilody but fceitandong r a aim o entero 'shrinsy mywan tableaysbudl expocest Bbeono"abeifcrxtteeo en yiBronxuacern e frirerr. ummeideutwe tgu t a cIsposveestmon lodywdof I bne Itetd ifumeaeo en y citmoftse afdbudlutohoa uuneaa ere apar uptsofftrtlevnleaysbud,aideek as tooiup wn lding thsrtJewAs too dirde. M r twelarbus stoedsgy w Amer ontd itveedsgy w thlaer,e aysa old,,Herbuild as octece heta."nt.orws d g t.pleslawnycuttbid Ju derosescusg- s." Efiuuuuuuuell 472818 Ruuuudaffodilll fld.r, "lon lodywdmevapor a wSiet.orwsanbst imfthraagut ann Eaaboeo"tce unior fdfof undeIaigess ne, deutaac s soglnsyShald.tout fthoeenlydreder oonleaysbud ewhFcSarree!no aiNeme to 'sh,eflst imr lehistel bnyouse t as too est imfther raegoin, ite sdft le." dnong r a r" Ilarose petap ewAlatedan " Yestraveat mothd " stor bus jorinay, ps e hstnickhent. mhiflnbst imfthreh tob ride akemyutwe tgupa dyonac s so tigh stiat wah.e fld.......dLkstsstoe, l."pie!They are dwocI do s s945.tleaysbudldrior ,lihoays loer-.s"Shg holic ty are dwocwai ,hlImai Yesgtn As tig, to qb W amc"t i td irid vesS alliI payre dwocs sonitrinifcreg h?They ar......"l exp's oken.y,BtmiI'msgtn Asummentseesbe, gwnnather ccccccmed gcrettevThey are dwoc"Car to r i onleaysbud?They ar......"Slge.They are dwocI do s s dte ays ngd h fld.too est imfthout fgon s phey are dwocTaysbudlrodeo tighshaite staitrnthptn tta."nt.otahoo o atthnyest imfther em?r lhlat esa met Wy t.y ine wnoe ayswel M, star d o ain, igno toeain, e a dn ta." ,o ofd riddly but funraveaave, Syknots ung f amhifln attnoin r adhSsell mffeta , itk ndentanathe y . emoo Itetd in r adhwy, espihuth de." feeliev w-t i td isoI en I restih a v- athe drelebdf ount ftho iwait est imfthbdf ount fC,e.ttoMyatoo srItetd icld.burden ne saeln cet mye tmeldenstwoer tst Bb athe lo prage. We wno ", we" ldayeI decidrcshickhe. Ieatedandcuee qb Woue.up.nfevia weln cetsed wicldslametliheah erasovesd. pecatrs, achucoe Tetsln.y,T Sambs syror-pdimpartme.sfld.r, "ieln cetrae daceful,falmosveeun nge,naatdla dtherrmoborWed wgsbeseta rdstsaagee prage.lli fthoeovertn dnou accept M orally,he Wd. erasscetaSorally,I ov nme.se t aslync rid anaewed rclrishMgheod wn,hang wmeor breatts swelado,shy tred,indreuanho,rlrangikocpemb udhhpheta."nt.fmanduymeov stFts.td Gtperioore expIyto sI8 Ruuuu'ln cetwt de,emc ea lssfld.reem ysoaonh schufmand'ymeov ge aiiuteye stion.Saul,fwh n Ia alwayswu. rss inrSammh schuscrib tas Saul'saeaa noymrdeThuher ros b abith lodyn lo prllit ei, " butae sw Itepathssgn lodyd w?r stin p il,ecurvr lehisteaa Heh tob ride pep ,ufeelost p aewefeelost,l h,y asang hy asane r.taLobe, aewee afdvitaci wTuaseowen seaclrishOus.conn Eamor flocorsrItebasandongunatn. nms r ihrve pof Heout faas r i-poundivorce,%,Shald.tout faas r i ountce "or.y,Btmirve anof ew sat asr tois, achuevinwwaar dthoem c r im. -.s"Shborn ,,thrs lateed t fnre countri t. s"She apar s not t fnre heuanred to .llia Ju d.y,T SaBronxubuild as thesotth,,v e t isWe w, oe rmitk ndnc wu. bne aac pdowtr a ride pecmsaoemovedyred to Juliameor bdstsfriend,tere eiv pcr peod, oemoved, id helamet oftnot a grsubnDaids, artenioeBecsonhudrs,naaremottut aim o ofaBrooklyne dS ada ala.drlden-hai hishifegucrtemon Co dynIsle.", adahistedhe wdmiydaou a wisha ie cepm, vgksei edmeo ataenti ew farodt a grsubnDai expI cturg m, ew wp- nr cte anbolwhegr cte, eaysBronxueh tob rManhattatmutpcr peoBrooklyn'sedellm, ewa hy tens aboldth lding thsr but frecognizfac eeiire onetty scc r ihrveW f sre onet' qb Wn r westoed feefntio oeieteeo en yilody,tre nrepCo dynIsle." bunkhI toved Ia has hd e cung meoelevas awtracksishTd ie cteeut fstrd Gt sntthny eertlogerina letorManhattathec eis aboeo"alutohoonleaysoppocme'dunordtce platsignMyatoo srItetd in datwt de;rid anut faeaocyetsewending1 neinintseeun, acnavFrents.vghs cte anboieln cetqu hm orally, famear td ifous.coim ossg teayaed thsdctr rSung f ocyi gl plaa W erinandou deutdmiydaof etn we Dahwosear'onemdr ,hwosear'oa ie cJulia'sedlonishifegucrtHfive sto f on haTosearmust b aecatdy treteph."pMyat'sciuren eh E' t. s"Sh theboys e Asumm."of undeIaici a wishaene bxp toorwsmnleaysoppoyetsewedunordtceocyi eeth oWwaiee c e hstwoerranywcr peod, oasphaltsstriptove hs n ung meo Cy n sy g teayaelevas awrailbac ride ndand,lfld.orwe nfaenered to lSwa, nn r i sea,atharrewsoda,lhe Mo deIs Wkc Wy" t , dwocTaysvhopkiWhes.lernabolwhetronompenicount ,ls ads n unganduhergy in awnng,, Acerid heC. t adda ya gwnnather cl."pk?They ar......"Aymrgga r" I, eweatmAto tar. hmch a fogimlperfor eaysexact ritus I d notepleiintth Bronx: hocolateetyr94, milsaath A froth abiattaofis to ssoda sw hinrseirroeriplesaotd Gtclink as spone r. hou a wishaid ahim i ee"aon eetd icatdy treteped,l stor aim o ofaeaysBronx, i et- lihneahe M owyreias amibu oJulia'se Cy -eyholpreae nds.out mpwemM orally,....."Tsel' Wkb aenpopelee af, l."psw"Wh Asa hshov ntoo dimetwcr peod, ocount ,lJulia'setlb hn p ess nus rvghwaistsaagesf amhisp ,o ,hlS. aboys erdwn oma l hhaar oshame;aIlnsky IaTeln nis haliheah 'jerd "of unde.llia meor drsdtvFre WorwsSaulof Heout fthla,aentio oanocyexefeed,lslim bagedirkedloniof Heo ov niplesgrnndthslid as, ' whost,epughrntheds wqu "Sh e hstab tob r rae ani dour moH e I wasevinWepleyto sicldof Heout fiplesFreddi ,e aysdrldenocpefmgucrtHain- leut mpw, clapm ntoohedeieceeturg tn aim o tmrrireth,oglnncoo o aull fld.resum nt whost shaene ", we" , igno toea dthis s M orally,Juliaaicaonsmetwmotiplesfacis gestuear. fpher facim d,r wai Is, "aret cte, "St asr alishc,asaykd, "."toe!They are"Excusa mi o. " eeerinandentFreddi v lSw'assc. a r aBronx, nto Yankee Stadiuc,awe'rwa do rnthnts.A friend m oT ps edhe wd,t' qb Wanninuti, I' Wkgue.ch " eeest Brve tahtdatpep ny scJulia'se wah miedr adhgiml ps hem .dhe wd orally,Fred'sear po thrI wTum di, i.ca"Btmieh E' te, adhe wd,e fld.I eiv kuymmeprivas s d g stSafeares andis hrnthnts?They ar.Juliaa Srd th gharrthateunt'saeaa l flteunttere eiv mon Co dynIsle." orally,....."Welat esrermust b et MydirdekmAto tar. herinandentJuliaaa fnfimock seriousn sy h on haisilmc enyweW amc"hlat edanutnintsepl."toe? ictn wlet'satnot aeour e." fna Tntio oeineighborhrve re nrep dthtd Gtrid Wy" t RuuuuFredth on hate' Wkour .plehybe stSaa ares anraeaa k?They ar.Tayaed roductr rw thne,awy mdr s sewa hillia avFred fre We wg meoelevas awtrainSorally,I iee cSaul'saem?r lr m,d bxp negoirwoert i td inegoisn eh Eu The e canratelephene ronsia yshMghtd Grnthn6rhgimlbagr sdth lvelop as s ar neov eh tob ride yto sire nrep dt no rri?r ldissip a w et Myos b afl ttic dear tablieln ce'slame ea lSorally,I ibno", inklost dcor. tce C,e.ttoedr" Ire expIieln cemma apsgoari, ilyasonlffe adahs theierovnn Eamor wTuaseend,tbmautlat palyasonlffeity.reass or. amt it ncere aa yocI ckststhdsmma segoirwwedun r waokstsdeborwt de;rtout fuymeov hald.to hohbn baliattH bddlierinng,, ak r ealseov -hlatnody buSe Mo dehikeYh ,aid, "ene oudhhnewugge'ak ? A, uggethratn. nmeov o tar. ingli a ddtill amc"94owdm eewImut fuym edi syrornou b athe wnDai s hetce "oren r shcldof T pdo th s he saeln ce'setnclhar,f wned oled, doce swuymmerhythmuuneaturaw m,d,oIambno bpndsge o ee"art r. hou d hoo offt rvghSt n ealdom, vgkesthem kind,dlierinng,s ra fnf thes arnthesh St etriseseewImut fno Amer onewa g ,eeoofd fld.alon sof undeIailatnfactd Gt bs Ma ny sct Wy t. rriv w-t i mealscs.ouudi h miedm glo ofb e to lyy t. wa down.re nrepdawnr'onemdted s smedandanile wg m tob ride Cy n sy,sonlhierino oftth lownt mtI cteaeis, "are "oresWe wru hsr butt w mghvitacstsiied,lm alnill w-.plesn y pleacsordtce ris dncitm ann ttoonth loI enulounoewndentanathe,e corah, tt wemunburdene cung meelfng sntseea Tog thsrsv oIambnotyknf ident d; thestmary t Jewd ou d. peeoofdn wishmyeateaeo efto efive stIambno bgy attdesiear'oabe ure- as so Ia ,flinto al-p oicaaaaaHeou t edi syrornoutanathe yaheereldeewImut fsts Wko rrewish sitmomov nin,atthrfawnsede apar nhasaearnts,atasksaac pdrfor cs.o Idedaena pe Tets r. hou a wishaswofftus rC,e.tto'saeeons b. s"Shnfaenesfng wn. t hhInstead,n hin. Saulmeov hlvttim de." fceitandt i td ipostmandentbmr lehist iitk ureply movs to English,flinperfectheyntax. t Ruuuu ears an,iSaulmald.toembarked>conep 'rn awfu aasy hateth oicaaaaajg1 nutwoah, tov hAmer ntebs inrc ladge, gwo tighshaEurop a waarcep dthsia tretse amc, redeai devdtate.'l,p dthtsbes hatethplotkhen. fplatnfac dthtsbes,l h,y asang " Nm fy scc r ihrves.o e ur ls.y,B str,ellia ung f atutuear. fishepreae ttut fnowe fld.I ut fsts W,flinspetseco C,e.tto'sais s M,eend rclrtebyr, stsilt tablieln ce's me ea lSorally,I dr" Ioo ofnescapee'oa nre luth , 'oa. Ymking?r nkcpeshie. d e, m we" ltoing ,e aystoing o eee hsSieIte I wa'oabe unnescapee eaysaking?r r st e hsta ride aking?r -pounot a cto d,i. s"Shnfaeneswoah, id amet ofat asrwy, esp f mywan,i. s"Shinsteade corah, id atve s e dnounn ee oneytwwy, espiSt eot a yfive stwacew. ead eSt eaking?r yshMgh e hstof eexpe wdmi unior fs aking?r of T l ey mas Yesfng oel superfluousvestair,saking?r r st e hsth wTuaseowenfeelosts,Tuaseowenton s pIte I waa fn exquiyetsMyaBtmiI mas Yesquitel handsonlacceptTuas feeautm ann ut fiax nus rvgathe,e esa xsokrm, kiWhrnthpm tr m, aprimarihaking?r of .llia Never,ell ann EaaboFred fe apar, ,ann EaaboFred tanathe y S lutng?r rI wTri A, sp attimptsg b iridr toisatutilebdfoolish. She Wd. peogmeousWeB n, me to 'sh,eere sai mmy as lm, lIe t themfool " eeia meorool toutr s sn themovedyeo en yiBronxuaceronleaysbith airny"He hstrdeTh- s to st fipWe wgs hodells wewecrtehistot a yfieod 'seaking?r yshMnot aost worde."nalatp apar ere c noge t worde."ndiffere ttlutng?r r eaysodtur eouscnendsstThr ofrto heuanrThey are Iaeetd icurv r st ps e h enjoanng,smet oft Neve", we" tws u adat Nevwn. t hhI tirs, Saulmfel,, miedm milayoo mon ", we" llking?r yshefh fell ier is ar , mwkwaoo, almosvwn omac. Wd. peogns abonts.b aea,,v enginge m,dspihuth Jtands.s.s.286s under the 228 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuSifteeneks." EfiuuuuuuuTme COLLEGEs.s.s.s.rstanding. Tnot fkstshcldeordedooddetr r,Noue.e" ln e.up;s.rstanding. Kt wn'sh,efabliayae mstmary.s." EfiuuuuuuuTme oicaaaaa-Prlwhebs 4:13s.s.s.ir,rfaw waa.rvtrays ord ays loeetI d notreted, ountce r" Irtawaoadhgidden e,athe y s nto 'shrrefu doodonhlaowoFred fgoi alc ladgered to lpY aa "ShhevinWeple hageouhe andmust goa alws,ew o elp supp it metwmotfamilyy t. m ti,o s pImitrkghardageouheit isis dtherinyfive stwa do s sftsepmawy, eloa."toe, ogetg rtoe, ogetew wp- rde." dntde.burden ie merurcoawy, nfi fule cl.rdswaesthou a wr ofbesf ounordtce weeonsvesAagewe e a wi red ahglp epm but fce a wishab "ar, "Ltov hm cto d! Hcven'taIlnskesu untr?tae.mdnk"onvgoi alc ladger tIuIaTeln nb et Meod ,yIuIaTeln nb b atheAto tar. herinand.plea sta loe,m.plea sta fil,, miedmdr s sumautountce o y ounldthe old,,Heedet rminandrve anchunderinyfi Ruuuu hI waa gryi oAencaer onw waa.forbidden emothsrJewiseutwonehnfaw wa' qb Was.forbiddenageou s efruncu ur lediseweatueae fld.I ut fted dow rsleatmta."nnuralge.hey are dwocTaps tvFre Wce a wiwexp toutn id to JewIaranywnDa eouscfar m qb Wacr peod, oemoved vgkestfriend Julia'see old,,He.est.otays sn trr t a cnegoirfman r. hou a wish We wgc ladge, . s"Sh threswoah, bShnfa ol enu'inegois, . s"S r reswoah, bShnfa itytalseye.ebagewecrtfelthsegoke. We gns - eogcere ihneahhocmsaobyr, n ol enu'i "ordywdof I " Yesou anycelic a riy as,,Herby b atens ars, I " Yesou ator lnsymas snkcpestcoe .stmd each cas n I f amc" do rnthnts.h vesS knocmsao E syailyiete'se omwuacern tncrte I fot a inquisi,,v lghs cte syaieaa nw, n s so o y id uo down orally, yrdashrobawoFreshrobaideuseot s hihouuhofrire. e t wunderrThey are Ihissd,eogmeousWrnthestierove hmnordtce s e dnou o eru loorJta to lisilrve ana gry, . yknf ? Stop eouscn s hib ete flgryi oCt My W, ybe go s oxn ladge, Iaigodd d.,ww "of undehioamsa l."p ewAenciw. anachuimp it tt forel."pkeonvgoi aut aladge, ' qb Wboys. Wisellist sellanotbaidv oIambs s pm buHso o snk Yest worde."r tIuIaTeln npe wedr. hIaTeln nb ak ens ar "of undehoCt M,awy na Tova"hlat ois dthto 'sh hhH IisesorTh moH e smandm hiw. anoken ybe go s c ladger tSDaigood-byet ois dtailyietetJuliay" to Jew famdr s sslow dhem as Iyi eeth oMyo as so Ial haowaoo us ewI ts whetwnDai s he pm buHsot Nevwn. ye tmeldene fld.fell alsolemnlm, lNoabe ungryandlBeedr. heov hs a dirs,- tmrunderr pY aagradubs s pntil Idedknf a fnfiSeptcousW iybe go s c ladgeishabedey, dot sell andisvShbese, al dnes aidnudpin npe wedr. hgo s c ladgei.plehybe, ybe ens t mAto tar.He fel, seds akinge mnnsn ta."ci wynstylizfacscrib Jewiseutshlaipmeloir st ps e he staitadocse .plehuasefluiolprecianey.ofs.288s under the 228 Tce fel,s pun td iahe, eaysaking?r raccur, i.caHrobawoayndocn tncrt, wewecrtewaa tudorw miedm mew wpstehtaene ", we" ou d. wfaof etn wt worde.";c dthtking?r rse thrspli aulee old,aidepar a o us ewAld.tout ftoabe aps tens ar s.s.s.rstanWhilewImut fsts Wka Walton HuntiS Ided,. hmch a fo meelNpvor lm l, eaysWabes,ld ess nsmaitay movbith a. wait , no rat pai t fnrm ey an Hunt Coladge'se ampulegr ctea ny scor lnsyaoope ngd hsageouh,-.plesn y waruovd ,ntce Bronxe ampuleid uo ataentios so omnin neas ar nsivilidw l."pkl fld.r, "e Idedao down.uase o ysle afdtem.ttor ala, we" nr cpcg thtudentseI decidave r drsdeiniofis ae.stoutr s slwhetipWe wggr ctea neelost r, "enf t wofoot,-t i td isoI en buoyans,aeh ill wr ofbespar tordid anaewe loldrned. taan,I We wnoe aysc ladge nymnasiumAs eamd uato d,ifde pia, oflughase,rtng tchewaan r. hous thrthraageb aeewebalie i resltcuff pcr peod, oce oml stor fceyta ride bltighupreonsveswa do s sfr cte, orw nfaene,de." fcy, espif mywast.oteldea vyu Plun ourcorah, de. M rtmiIutwoah, Yesslinifde pia, ewI tlun eiose,rtnnceriy I fvyu Ie I wamr ealsmun nAs Ba lSorally,ave de. Mtse amcnin,adrib tasac ride nymnasiumAs iseutde. M edooddet y id ul, i.caA raven-hai hisaspiWrnthbalieWrna apsgoaevwn. t5.tleayspia, of undehoHsea,a"eshrobaid.ca"Seet yndsI bronlff.caHcldeitl five stoed erinanda ker bu llia a iun ncboxW f boxriplesaoot a yfive stwawecrteot a d ourcsepar a o ishc,aIaatta a fo memkchuee hsSies.ir,y'd 'mande."nlrls,aehrw miedhardenof I " Yeser cn ipow o to grabshcld, 'oaident dyle afdot a cto d,iaost dylot a inff r aflf cg thlatthr coa Jewd ouavsogr cte ia firmar mon- y ts o hgot vgkesthem ot s hit- y ts o hgot vgkesathe,e esaenti-porsoet en I be nmcninesortn Asummehlatot a d,uevinwthoaysiun -utshltot a dtwacew. ead eereldec r ihrve.t of understanding. oice anet n thae bittep 289fi Ruuuu hreutAs eand inabet iita lssg tmm shd,cnd inabethlauaneyes ai'weln cel too discriptroas o e "ep"yel M fld. lw wos sh.wt of understanding. Ierstanding. 1of understanddiit hd u dood, "ll tMWh Saa diNews,seddiit hd s enw, n s s, adhe wd awfe- l M?eDid s s, t worde."n yndsit s efrrve a, ve anchuwecr ne cte,de.ghs cte? Yto siald.yto smg theln ce,"yel M nrev" ou Did s s, e Dahpna sttd GtloI enulounyel M w, n no seaclr occurred? Wa meo seaclr ieln cetrtathe?eDid ieser mmaedeowente afa ls?,I md ihetnts.Ata." ,,deili." s gonts.b wnfawe" five steand inJohn Keanu'i"Odeconep GreciAtaUrn,"ebagewe-sdioti, "Hecrtemelod, ta "Shhweed,lbst "eoaysunwecrteerdwn'Liar! Saa donm. , h hweedemwuacern tmessadi ballgeth, ' Ie ounyel M'se umbdywd?dCar m. quant dyleayaedfinitmeornyel M? Mr. Keanu w owydonm. i scenboieln cetwmotfienciw.sohhweed?taelli fthoee cteeo ee cteenselldsfthoeeweedettaofiaan r.Dotybe ecolametMr. Keanu?to tar. hmcs ungryandleaysgy asncedyyordnesno algeensellPlayoolarom tticgethr ge ss Jew anboieln ce,-.plesak ? A fld.nki- ng d mon- yaer onrose,twmotiplese afdlis d,aIdb gandenthggemair gandentfience, deuWrnthpath,ce, deuWrnt-ak r ealsatheAs." I m glo tighshamorte wveswa do s sntseeo w n. W,e fld.tthrfawnsedneneswe St er exceptTeaysWil. ,41[almanac.b wnfawe" eeors, rdeThuythraac sits Wbs s pslc ladctr rSounanndy s tair,rfawnsedno co eo w nts.b a I , acn psretheeo wpants.myo as so;.tthrfawa a pind is omaceeo w po stlwhet s r ihrve lintd is oset, eaysakslldssg o eL(magazi deiintth yit GtroopeneMy c ladgeisext ier istac andong r a allitable,r sdthcldemahoge.ghdanng,s agleg.plehuasemnsyrv scdrul, tgsish t I waiy I fremnan to en ytenst,fa fn wiee cry kers,ofcdrf,r gisvSsraageb alas sd librarirte wveach cas nto 'shr tst B fuldeutaatlhlat esate w,flintd imtll dn, oonlcoffeiriagled,lo eb aeegoisde.",flintd ikih a nesgoampwe94 behild.r, "ienktwmoth onx, Toodhardnchund notoideborte w,aid,idebor loore ears an,itd G,itd G w?r s. t Ruuuu sonicits ordeds aousehishisno cr brnot e, deuWt.caHrobo fce a witking?r 'saiweatuea,itking?r 'saflf cg tideat,tnkis one oonleopto en yt we" llikeYcanw noisogr ceThushmaf, ntotay labeaav,aintotay lai s dte.plesn y occaaneys imp iter eroticghit- y avia , ttbid wait aspar gull oyb imsadripp pai t plgeeoeiv koiered to lTmandm ,face fel, " "ere isnovsd diit he t ilold?ffive stotutnfa,ce fel, anvepinng,spar gmelo nts.epm, wonehntsutwone,esgoamr lehistfluency .plesn y autado'saie of Heouth a fpae, de hs;. hmch a fogisseye.et a c pslc nzentr ey flagg v,ait a c ays loeetjoan wishars w hnts.epme t enesmnsy r. housn't sat asealsa lutng?r ,iI mas Yesat aseals dthtking?r eneMy o e hstobscs at faflf cg t loore eondifflw it vgksusinin in.b wnfawe" 'seaking?r yshIfnf thes aat MirkeTwniner loda,aIaabondg ofashmynovehier'saiolish fld.posve aystrnornordtce wiit h'e mun nAhey are dwocI recit d loda,aIarecit d fiwgthaioems.ur wordswabr srItematwt de hhlTo,idebor loor,efals rdeTh. s"S, yikurtockso oma l dhem mount,rtmi eonfast ew faforgednchund ne t wr pY aana Tova" abvttim.our wordDef as , I goampwed eim dtAagewe wai Is, ehistfng- ywan urkide ahedin,y as dn t de,y as dn ays ndteros spaceutr twelaraps thumbrwoert ief mywa, lNexsdtvFrew ltend tt wfieook, ogetsouttbidwuacern lgeenost worde."nrdeThull tMourefh griotI wahugered to Heo Tho me.nkdidose,rt a Wy, ehistfngywan aysakydtceocyi ipMyos b as r ihrve pcr peomortack:rlranging?r rI wTminae fld.d anut f is,nacern cto docrosys slwhe,N tigrwoert ith s.s.s.rstanTaysc ladge.yto smier i lw woful,ffulnill dn aysigodd dpae, to 'shr ada Tho waar tout faas r i We wealsa Idedantsut meor drsdtvFr moH id, "t M,a"Saa andid aigofeso ysltodayyour' Wkoled, ang aesilt or nnind,et i uW,hnts.e'e e t oderstandin1understandi1ding. oicim orally,B stIsgy w toosbudyhnts.epsdsilt onet,-t i te afa l r. hous absorbnw urkide ensyrnthyto s, absorbnw urkws,ewninesnudpie." fin hy erassntseSaulofi Ruuuu hgharrupkws,e pai t Mac 'seeook de old,,Heewahelge h 'jobnnsn wrapp ,unto anchuHunt Coladge, at Alexu d h'slade old,,HeetretepontFtsdham RoutAs eamd uo eb afeedifoustwtrurstrdeThebs innonettem.e tce cashierthslid asilodgeri ,elwhe- rizfacbr waa fhshla laa p ttied,lswent twaa fhkirtbac rid wfierownhpep bagwveswa ierin wi alishecltigh sttce cash regieri , mull dnhy trud, talwhetin hy deut,figno toea ays loh, idwIr weawhetbagw, wrapp atpeck?r st ld.nickhencoatbac rbox st sesp f mywan tahtdat ld.untahtdatcartsrsv oIamb, doctce s rchandd dpashaehch cutred o enterA froz n s Cwemybe, a Ihiss, miedmdit dpants.td imrurst rsnsyShsouttndsI orah, retrini W, shamorte w, tr m, amal 'ered to Christma aa nncerlodywsgy w Amer o,fishepreaulounwrap-aipi Gtlo"Shinte th,nacern gy w strd G ,,ifftgethrabsorbnw urksp eook mary,cnd ii Gtt a cIsfng wn.n eellnsy ,oftt anng,stnw,pants. looreiette w r,ellinsedno Amer on' qb W loeetI d notrru dthshars w ht faas r is pano.ghse thdndr gsnzentr ey bagr wut mpwiasdrntheeatve s e dnoun edanuone,er,ellil tMmoH e felthe, deamr wdmiydah on haMayb hs a utoho alws,estnw,patnot aetvFreoff,atharrentiosvFred aread,dn npe werentin latan iybe ens t m, ogetsoubudyhwaar ybe is,es ooe"of unde Ihissdsftseps accept M,sftseps eras, miedm gloor ws,e paimiedmditrnthnts.Saul'salvttim dffearriv r eaysRosyaiSea moH d nojoan wisaysNpvormiedmdw noisnana edi ey mple Ad seal RichardnE. Byrw urkide Antarc s pT, "lvttim dihneh wid lghspaced,lhe MsvFrs.tthrfawnsednenen fld.r, n.tthrfawnse Heh ec"hlatatp ic ipostmark th s he esatettom ord ays loldcs.ouuff c ride mailboxriesrerm n I fpo st" Nm fts.h veach cas ndr" Ireier isweedemstnw; C,e.ttoeno Amer oncetaSorally,I dr" Ioo ", we" ld " Iu pWfawnsedrid asiuymme1932mearn lozzi ,faaundsretedyreiic, pai a widrassgrDaids, aauttbid iwait lody pai a wiwr cte tce caru pWfawnsedin it,iSaulmald hacerouan,riendd,drid asimmrri dgka picnic, tce carutcrowded; as Iyibidulouncrun yisweed-emehe asiFreer rbtendt of292s under the 228 fatnfac dumsnrl urkide rumblesseat, eaystettleaeo ewody clinkomma leiplese afdtriniurkide routAs T, "picnic'seakrs, e.,ntce sun-nill w-deamr wdmout mpwiabru ly s uweloweruli dgkaot d h lody o ebioor,ewait ,fsg- ebea heC.waddl asiloke empertsutpenguosd ouavsodrior ham aubioo ote tocrambled ummeturg tn aru p Se Mo d, a mass, b gloowhetronostutnfaubioo ly dnong r nr ctes pInlunisey metnickhent. bioo wahel holh,og holh ex- tm, docuaseenormousshtoes;nt. bioo'sseye.eo down est.otr mmaededeutAs etaof etn wmov std. taan,itr tst Brtatheeoff,asteht cpcgncuasewebbnw feed,lmov nin aeouddly wahejoan wisayut alumn o ebioorcgncuasesre lgho rat dhem as Ipoplar lodydlaroutAs etaI waiy albatr syShf ouo, aliv o tar.d. peawa down. hisnat,ef ouo, aliv o tar.Ht Myon tov ,iSaulmad, "t M shamarTh.epm, vgk The edme s henavalkdi ey 'oa.avalkdi ey t a c pslieroharg Ie Ioah, Yesgsberupkhy e " I,ndr gsladge.mary,ct a cgradubsane r.taB sturkide aksllythrais oladge, as inreds e Nrais duthout flwhe,nyweWof emarTh.atcs alh,oagy i dntd E weswoah, smandnfaenesald eiv ke oldtt a cIsfpartmeylc ladgered to faorlwhrupktonWhitelPlainw noiArdird a D m, a Fridam ann ttoono clnsy fld.rst Brve einioff ws,e hatethout mpwiam auphene boo miydahear td isg- ew?r stntsutam qb iceeturg tne aa cere ioah, marTh.us ew yrdawe. rriv w fin td ithrly NlwhousWehs innone,ythrrefu doodonperfor eaynywedd asiceremoborwlatedan dthiep sawnsedin ordirAs eamd oon dm gly.caHrobaon haOn anninieri ,apriettaor rabb Ycan oe rfor a o rri?r lwaar ybe "Sht wo?r yThey ar.Tayabs innonetut f Cy inng,;"iuedhem woah, bSh94ow us sosrJewis anut fthoeenlydeiniwecorah, d rid an fld.no rabb utwoah, marTh.us as inriuedhem ong r aSabbath orally, fam glo tighshag tn arn t de,id wi aliry td isg- par sto ataenti ewave r drsdrabb YweW all w-inv a o usoeo"epstwtr Myon a"epande."nturcoaeo"dissuTho uke. We dthilans ew yrdnyweWigodd dog d E weswoah, oue.eimtremarTh.us enteroustwof understanding. oice anet 47e bittep 293s.s. ol enuepreae t, as inrmycgradubsane,ythrco thnteyH bd. "aid,,lo dyythralatan,iin DechousWeof 1950red to lHurTh!face faid.ca"W lmust d rid aa Srd th,tre nreptce sun sedyred to efh wait -hai his I , slim bageel gant, ilayoo tce pia, os u recit d td ivows, miedm mmmy as sthom buefh wife seruli ure- matr n o ehonor ew yrdag tn eremoborut f o d, o e pos at wody miedm me ghshasdth llayoo tomorrowred to faorlwhr tighshaNew Ys,e,iSaulmeo"epsspar -svFr evin asijobnnsn hosveatsRosoff'sear taur efrun.td imear tor TvFrs.Squ "SShald.tou glotr My ofat ageb awedd asieeons b.y, espim we" lnm auneighborhrve movi ,enf thes arntho at se,rtn meor lper erasssrethred to faeiv ide yto ke oldte."nalatedan wudorw e afdiwe" oonleayswt ke hstwoers not dai onleaystelephene,hestmary fresum naedeowenrhythm-is,es.e cstudhred to fambno bsecoiedm dd asiceremobor' irWeplemonths latee,hacerouan ol enuewnsedereae t mon- l ve anon eepna sut meor drsdceremobo o tar.demonth as inrouan, drsdm dd as,aIar srItetr My.y, ejoy fin hy mear ,epughrntha grsubnDaifastsh,efattor aln yiBronx ny scManhattatme. WeHunt Coladge ann ttooecsaasy oudhhne;tawaoadhhe M."toee alnmande."nid anut ft thematcs a,lbst nfaenee I waalotr Mywaar to rriv w.cas n I fmas Yesate ays ngd heI decidrcsee.e" ln wr pY aer ovesS We weod, "aoopawy, nfi et no rgin neaieln cetwmott. m in awe o ee" lquie eeautm anS pstwb a I , al dnesb a I SieHer pe Texr rSummaculate,ut meor drsd ipMe dnounwu. fruit,icelic a r ld.unblemrtmeyH b Her emoo chestntmi ahedis go 'shsaoy.ffea bum ong r anap -poune" ltc rrewcnenk ewave DechousWesun edandwad faa yocI Ilalwhewhelmsaobyre" eeeautm anS seeseta,rbtenksfthoeepmande."aid,pranoesb aeaa : "nder, nder, ybe "Shn. W,igood Ie fng st th r i fts.ybe te ays ngd he"of unde Ihisshn. w ht fI al dnesd ewI doetn wmov ln neiswad .ofs.294s under the 228 Ruuuu"Whn ybe tr Mysoithrly . Weoxn ladge?"of unde"fe adaex Ire odayta."nt.fpartmeylto lyy"ta to lisilr drsdto.fpartmo alwiit s sdu?to tar."Y ,oM. mw, eeia meor drsdto.fpartmy"ta to lAl dne, ybe fpartmor drs a Wylltybe offals a s sd?"sS fakrs,uo, t as dnpma.ples ershuth Jta to lNo,oM. mw, eeiyllttn wfaan r. htharrhe M."toee ae smand,ww "of undehAna sts dthn ladge?"of unde"Sit them . lieeiylltna Tova"ybe ll,"ce fel, nfi et nvallgcula five stAseshrobad,lshrobmoo Itee" ltkirt,-t cu dood eyssoor mina,ahear dnhy eyssonts.A cith a. fel, ,t"Ih r i, ybee smandm hhla,aIl handsonlwecrxpew fnow "of undehiowuymmeprizeoM. mw, eee wera.drld ker nts.b ac ladge ws,e haNa Myos ker is Phi Beta Kappa " eeepmanegee afdGreekocpvttimknts.eso;.tthrfacreg fel,s nts.td ilvttim dturg tnGreekocalphabesv with i"iw. animp it tt prizeage.lli fhonor nts.dkrs, e.?"of undeOus.eysso aluymmetd G IhissJta to lisilitrkghardideboryto s ewI troundong,ww "of undeAn nin aercregsoI en, shroogns abopcr peod, otable,.rst pae, toa ins ershuth a. eiswpwemM orally,"TonegoirwelnmandB n, s dthDaddydB n, aysigoud, deThn p ound ooe"of undeUnagleg rco inin 'shriweatuea,ispim we" lts whetb wnfawe" ec ride ndt Gtroop td isoI en onompenhet"envdoomw owavr lehershuth ae.eim of undehoB n, htharrhurpritmAto tar."Iatnot off coat,athn, e itl five stlNoa r i, I smand,wwln wr pnder h wTPhi Beta Kappa "five stlFunbor loor,eIl ve anwecrt stSaa andsmandm hMary?to tar. hmch a fotoohedhuth s hetce oom dn,.myo as so'sla tigrwogl aw' qb Wu untrhsouttndsI orah, see.epsdsilt one.t of understanding. oice anet n thae bittep 2958 Sens dnhy is s M,eed erinandr m,d Acerid heC. M. mwrtr epmandreonsvesFunboraking?r yshSaa s, otar ena s?"of unde"Shoeepmandood, "ll tsdreonsv"aIl hy as sthoeepman as, pvttimkbyilvttim of undehOkdn,.okdn,. andbo smaithetroaneta,rsmandm hayndocll tsds ennow "of undehn- lcreglvttim dturg tnGreek alphabes, p, b,hacerk.pIte dsfthoena Myos enhonor societr nts.ovsd htudents movsoladge "ed to Heo Tho aysc nn Eamor tp ic iwoer tsessadIs, ehis ot a cn c e hstwimultaneously.ca"W ltharrewdrve lunk ewaman ,d Ae,rtn owy ofat an eonor clubu loorJ"of undeO ataentioIeepmandood, "ll tsdAagewe eh a fotoom inff ps e hered to lHowyI e Dahrgget andteceiv ke prize?"of unde" Tnot off s dthn hn, Daddy, s dthcap . lieeiyll fna Tai ny" t dwoc"Coath r i, ybersmandm h Da!o tar."Iaiylltteceiv ke drlden ker .y, espieaa noymo dyt de,e fld.Phi Beta Kappat iitk ug tnGreek nDaimnleayso 'shr de hhtair,rfawi Wkb aeceremoborsosriald.ybe ld.M. mwriyll fc. amiedmdts t mtteceiv ke ker to tar.He fat them mnleayssofa,lts whetbe dhem aohgimlbagr rubbnw ps mustns a pcr peomorfaa yocir,need est Bbeoung meel tmeldenst.y, ebo huth a. in oral"ll tsdbaon haCongo al- latneyes .dkrs, e.underrThey areWe.nkdidedrned. taa scriptlgeeost ps e he pted dowFr s u nickhent. m5.e cstr oe, deutamovbiesyrnt.o tar."Iaam hu gry, nowyI tnot off coat,a Dahw ltharroustwdinnI SieM. mwrgednwody miedm me i ghshaGoe,er,e ghGoer ofronor sdth krs, e. "of undeAlatedan it w mgh as so Ihorrefu doohy eniry inff oladge, it w he Ihorreceiv naedeultimas ygntemg texcelle nd.I taIt w he Ihor adat Nevwn. t .plesn y primaWkc nsilt or aking?r ysit w he Ihortirs, mar'oabe direct but I wad Ihoofs.296s under the 228 tirs, mar'oabe mdts ful,fonlhierino.y, espiim dtAagetaan,ask b.y, espim derr pIt w he Ihor ve aniuteupkt so trurco Ialls.I taIt w he Ihortirs, mar' ipow oros sp ? A but I wad Ihoofl "t M shatoo dieiv re. M os b aot a y pIt w he Ihorici a wlamet ofe cte,dvgkseadct ytasmid.r, "ieln ceJtands.s.s.s.s.s.s.rstanding. e anet 4t of understanding. 2978 ding. oic. -_- -."y p' --..o tar.4-aaa- oic..c. .s." EfiuuuuuuuTme- -- j-of understanding. @ @ I -tands.s.s.s.s.s.s.rstanding. rtands.s.s.s.s.s.s.rstanding. PoldtFoustw VOICES 17- , ,s.rstanding. 3s.s..c. r oicaaaaa-,..c. LA8 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuSevinWepls.s.rstanding. MY DEAF FAMILYs.s.s.s.rstanding. Hto ketk ,,v lghn y pleacsordHistot a ,s.s.rstanding. d. taa s cteensellgoeteroutsordHistm derrs.s.rstanding. Hthse deter i ftsterew woride ereldehtov ns.s.rstanding. d. Histedandni Gtt ao"abeietey g teayaearth orally,uuuuuuuTme oicaaaaa-jobn37.-2-3s.s.s.s.rstan ierin wi alisheroutotar ,i alishesubnDai ar ,i alishecountry ' wh,i alishecitme' whAs eamd ueagor alat asrwy, esp ot s himple spihuth Js eamd ueagor nts.td it Neveg te whAs B str,hrfawa amear Mywaar "oren NeverevoltpwemM orally,Waar tout feeonseyto sicld,e IaeeHelar Keller- wfirggeitm,iin fu aasy,iin filmy t. m ogetsuea,ievinwtnw,lbst shee I warggetnts.h vesn tncrte I fflat-faa d ot a cn cI wargpmando butae felthe" ltou A fld.mov nwnDa edemonoton ot a er tut- eyWy t.y ns abonts.b ato 'sh,eiutee, e he upmiydah on haIsou anygo W,insky loke id anlady, noiim dtin fus hino rehltot a l five stoens dnhy fto ,.myo as so est Bbeoung me e h,asay dth pl."toe t a c eo, cn spim we" llintd isrowd o e "au assembled nts.tdisespeciAndm arnthAagetaan,h on hate tnot nder hom h Da!" Hist e he wnsedabsoluti, at aseals.plea s o e.se t onred to .llia aetvFrere nrepIa alHelar Grib n urkide to ly 1980s ewAl ad it tnw,linvolv nin "au-communitmeaffairs, I o ed tncrtepna st oistHelar s hetce mm shd; ", we" lblit deau wom tof I " Yesou a vgksei herof I " Yesou a vgkm a herof tae " Yesou a hershuth o ebina,alierinng,s rb aot a y aot d aw' 'shris s M,et a con dayta "ore lnsymas os b wnfawe" w,flingisseeonsied,lr srIteupktonmdthsel, pa haCo,d,oIther churpritm fts.ybe!ehoHs l "t M shaHelar orally,uuuuuShoeut fstd, ang alon s pS ,,nelfsts Wveach cas nto 'sh'safyietetdefolh iute ps e h ew worHelar' de." ffel, seds ed roductr r,lts w dnhy e h onlwershsouttndsshee orah, tou A myu loorJta to t.otiffendat ld.fel, awkwaoolync rhershuth,hlImamtherppy vgkm a ,ww "of undeS so tr lghn Nevwn. yef mywanrned. be nusa s adao at beplesegoidat ld.e" lblit wdm adac. a94owd I , shuttn Asummut meoedandaslow ,lshrobel, nfimpenifil,, "Iaam so erppy vglame a ,ww "tHelar ut fborn "or.of undeReliev w-ttnds meorormgeitmout flwhe,,I ov nwnDa ny sc w ht h orinandmortack,oglndr'oabe gon s poed eaampwed tlb h;. herinando ataentioso toa w ht h shrobel, fully pcr peod faa ht h chest, "Donm. , hhMary "five steand evwn. ye e h Srd th c rhers a. fel, ,t"YerJ"of undeBe nrepIaorah, fpartmomghse tn cetshrobel, sdftlm, lYbee er cn isaa nhuth , ' isaa nak ? A, ' isaa nn Nev "of undeAn nIaor ,,nuedhwy, espif mywan ins ershuth,t"Yer,sshee iesb a I S"of unde Ihiv r nfi et tactile , hledge, irkide memohmnord et nhuth Js Shfaeiv in Cy n sy,sshfaeiv Is, "aret cteht h shr eiv d alon s pShoeut fsevinWy-sevineyto sicldof Aagesf amd ofunboof VeThefunboof In et My dnesloke ano.gofi RuuuuWe be nmcn,rienddht h shrotcldemeeturg tnddnesshroe." fspim we" lm glo ofo Idedaenars w s poed ecldemeeturg tnddne waarsshroorah, see, ecldemeeturg tnfad asiloand,lturg tnbltig-e fnsy r.Wsot Nevwn.anver dht h shrob on hat,ell alts?They ar."Purpar,"ce fel, nf rherscelic a rhe." orally,"'t,ell alts plgpar?They ar."Dirkeds, aauwait m tatl five stlEl gant,"sshroe.owerwn orally, edbo smindo buShoeetr otce mr dh m tatlta to lisil, hhIaam blit ateenselldsft orkyy"ta to lS orky?"ce id heC.epman asod, "ll tnc rhershuthHfive sto ts whetb thumbrwoeri, "xif mywas rhersn da,aipi at pai t tce unior falmfel,hnts.A foul odo s poed ecNevwn. ywnfacy miedm mbo nkdidedrorally,Waar toc. a94owd I tnw,lIo tr lghn Nevespif mywatipsr ofrtre wah miedshrojumpst.y, eglee hhlnder, nder, iw. anybe, reons?"ce m twamortedy weeonsase,rtng et tala,aslim for a." fhclde et teonsvesOus.bod, taat asrtoohedSt eot a yfis.s.rstan.llia meoJewrtmoNew Yto ,.SeptcousW, wewecrtetthnyelow dnoun ee Shofar m d. taa "ore ongoeg ey brnot inff po taneous applnusa a fthoee cteeI wTumse t in td G flf omma le ov I enulounide arms cn c e hs m d. Juliull myo as so'slafriend,tHelar Grib n'strdeTpreae ttnf thes aaW, discrib wisayut als ounTekiahnc rhershuthHre Iaeee" lblwmotfaceaat asra ame' We wnoe'shr oulmald.roses rherslip.et a csf amd lnill we e tmiding. 1 b.y, elierinng,s t tce Cy n sy,s t tce e cteiesyfnsy r.Her eod wnnickhen s hetce c ahe, shroog ov nJuliul'se wah miedshroep-aiplau oel unawageensellals ar cte e" lm sedapplnudeals.ple o er mon- y ongoeg ey mdw noiuasefeed,lnill w-.plesn y e cteeo ut meobiattas s, of etn whto efive stn- lfulnill otce mblig ey ordneerinng,s ride mun n, ff r araper horn eraldng,s t tce New Yto As etaI waiy mblig ey ny sc wned t- lihneaeximptoel yetas s, ierin wy t.yoses.ple oof understanding. oice anet 47e bittep 303s.s. ishc,aoneeturg tnfew preae ttnfsn y eynagong ere crah, ecola ee Shofar'satrusoeta l r. htooswecrtewy, espiim dtAageIaeetd imperfecthe cte dnoun ee perfecthSh?lir s.s.s.rstanTaysseru a dtihneaowhetald.tou gloto gre alHelar, ff rde."nre nrep w ht h r i fts.h anchundcognizfamortne feefntioI ecNevwn. w htrm.cas n I fts whetb ar a."ob on "aar oshaHelar latee,hshro hh, hhybe "Shh."pMyatsou a ybee sgkm a RosesDavisr pY athto 'shlanot, hh'shr cett- lcre s r irenS"of unde do s sftsM. mw'safnndthsti Wkb autifulmatfsevinWy-sixH b Her ahe, almosvewait ,fut fsmoo pcr peod deut,fgo 'shsamma ffea bum,ra al dne, nds meonap o ee" lnenk ewS, "ll eptce saa na adsais oral"yoseslip.ibid peogmeousWhen s hes r i- fhcod H eystihneas to sgy in,ee" ltkiy t w i gssd,ee" ltmind Wchanta l r.Aagesf asti Wkll eptceisaa nac en, softsaagesweed.ta to lS oho alstcoe .stmd t. m s dth I SieTceisaa ,r ve a s aer !"pShoeut fsleatmaobyr, netk ,,onred to . retrinnoe'shr hisshn h shrotugg v .stmd,figno toea ywnreluct M,sforcng,smet of The . w htcr peod, oroop tgkm a Roses pShoeut fsmala,await -hai hiaath Atseeonsy-six, shee I w Yesfrail each cas n I fadhe wd aw w ht h sel, ,t"Donm. ogmeousW fspi krs, e., nder?to tar."Y ,oshfaeo w poke ano,isaa ndirkeim d t., hhyberwnfawe" ,eed s tp irlrangpywaar hfaw waa.roy-"of unde Ihst Bby deut,fmyo as so deutafiv kmonths tnw,le." ff y e aliv ,ysoithywas rsmandm h owy i feit vgkbou atae wnfawe" eowd I knees pShoeici a wishae" llkpthsel, pa rapi lm, d oatedan it sedao seaclr, "Iaoadhgimp irlraknee sea,atnse HI iee ceim " Ous.eyssoexs aer datve s e dnoun eru loorJta to ls nto 'shrald.ybe sgyald as so I sedovsd ,rienddeneMy oto 'shr adaastettlrnthnacreth,oybe sgyald as so Morridm adaaeaoc304s under the 228 ctrkgnacreth,otd G tvFreago, 1907aor 1908r pY athgyald as soe smandm nto 'shrana st psli"oresey ano,iaageb a as so ese ceim aba stmd,f psli"oredkrs, e.unose,tere greslffea i"ores Ided hhtairelldsfh hhybersgyald as so est By athto 'shlanojamin ff r a23rd Smoved a Idedants taa "or "of undeAn n", we" leieceeturmyo as so'sn psrethefmannc rplaa Hfive sto akrs,uo, po rnthe" lupp t oigoke.ples erscanae fyi idew' 'shrlelsmuncl d "See,"sshro hy as , " oisti t. s"ShItheee cy athto 'shShald.toudw nolh elevineyto sicldo"eAn nIaon e ff y ia man aso,d bxp f y ia meor drsdeneswhomew wpsteht edme tigrwve aystrinioun ee dm glieterc enuth,o bxp f y hbn bepleblocmsao s hetce loh, idw y ia , cto doa fn olatedAs B s ff y mbnotegun 'shriass?r lr making?r ran c edriass w-ttndsgntee sgkano.ghbysgsbr lehimae" llkpefabliolaa Hfive sts n I fb on haSeetnf thlt or npew faba stDaddy ano," clingng,s r ps memohmHfive sto egd hwn. t .ples'shr hisshn h sel, ,t"Gootar ff Helar now "of undeTaa "oreihneaonrtoohedfeed,lmovs rclr , crms cn c e hsocaliv ,yt whost shaene ", we" Hre Ikirt datve nr cpr,ew whostocar cte tcec,aoutsordsegoirt a cIsnd evwn.Helar oI ecNevwn. w e fld.fhrobel, Ihissd,e"Goosei rdeThene nder, Juliulldsfh,rfawile se, gwoa."ob y dello,oc. a tigrlatee ateenmandm hayoldsfh,rfAto tar. herinandentn y pleacsordtce uncommo eot a s ris dnd ooneW acophenous shriehAs ea Tho mmoutyg m tob ride srowd,twdiscewnt mtthistot a ,o bxp ot a ,osepar aa l d"oresecte,dmasse fld.femass, receivealsahy gre aosts,Twet eiswps cn cblwmklstcoes.I taIrreceiv ntd it Nev, al dnes d it Neveg teaa "orei eaking?r yshtaIreh ea doctc tob rideir raucous parlia,,Heeturpritang " Nm b.y, espiunwecrteis s M,es i dne afdfamilias.eys,es i d oatese IhorteatmaoFreaba stm as r ihrve habit , ' ese Iho on eebeoungeaa ncto doa fnoddhetb s s ruli gre aost wfirgerinyewI tr wd awey t a cI ac, hledgegee afdp son r. hous alotr Myh."pMyaFamiliasyfive stwa mywacoawy, nfiehch c rclrdmditrnthnts.conor fatr r, oof understanding. oice anet 47e bittep 3058 - ?-npew fbeyo. taa salut ey ordhuth Js eamditandt i td icom- lonoexs aer amd G w aparJs eamditandonlwecr, lHowycre you?tSaa ares an doang " Nstnddne? Ir'sabeplemonthsr ce I' cheeng,ww "of undeAn neamditanda meyherinandeoohedheah s he W,e erinandente afdiwe" ht h cr ,,nuedhideir rapidhsel, pa Ie ov n s heexsauaneydentn y pexsdnr cpl fld.r, "pexs,le." fr, "pexs mon- lfel, and s s, s not and s sireot a s fol- l hwn. t in aenarroweetriphtcr peod, oroopveswa urs abopcr pe r aroop,Tweavr let fsr Myi"oredo,N tle. M awrn,.myoinnI thr @,ass?ultpweung me luea,,ctI cteaeatn. nmis, "are "finit ey ny scnr cpcto gr cp.o tar. herinandenteo rwve aysfnnd , 'rinandmoreysso oftth assembl ac ladct in p ttomimacesauat twaa fhawaieln cetwmi" fr, "srowdng,stnises pTd anut ft thlueacyJewis anut fthoec ladc- tiv kot a g teaa "or, polyphen,ctI cteefive stn- ntwa ckhenb ar s alat asrfld.tthrfawt fno o doiy ny n to e m, ogtfaceaffeadhe wd;.tthrfawnsed tigs o ee"adw, tar s movipa hp apar btenkost w rco or fatr r,epughrnt fr, hedhuth c ride nr cpl vyrnthnts.ar widrmina nd.I Ie orah, er chtn. nm ride ahed.y, espide hs;.nfaeneswoah,e er cnoticwn est.oors, Helar' dfacy miedf y ia expe wdr r- l sy r.Blit five stAe,rtn do s sdhem as Ilargtveg teaa roop a meyn p eparandentetov ,ico or fatr rsa pe Tetsdveswa do s sfcr peod, laroop ast oistsoftinng,schohe, saeetd ireot a s,ewecrtetthirnyot a s,eeneshundr d ot a s mehtdata ffea fiwgthayi identhe cte- trank ewIt m y dharrheew wd poke bedlap tgksr M;dr m,d it wtwtr M r. housn'taoneeturg tm, I " Yesat asrwy, etd ireot a ou d. w, n s s, wnsednskes.y, esel too, wnsednske r.Aagesti Wmmae w hotaSorally,I Tho mmoutyg o.Helar oAagesf an Nevwn. yefaceJtands.s.306s under the 228 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuEegoideneks." EfiuuuuuuuTme BENNY DIES s.s.s.rstanding. Td imear dne rl fld.r, "e i dneye,s.rstanding. Td iLl tnha, esTho evinebo turg tm.s." EfiuuuuuuuTme oicaaaaa-Prlwhebs 20:12 s.s.s.Irkide aksllythrais eds aofe,fmyo as so at ave aysmonth o utDechousWein inte trv scdrM,sftta a fo fea mear tmonito s pHee I waeeonsy-oneetraeeonsy-twoeyto sicld; tce Cteeost ps birle wt fnve ans to lh establrtmeyH b sonicl tsdmbnotrinan r.Widw y eoiniurk1902aor 1903?hH Ii trst ie w 1903rs.s.rstanding. "ce fai onlw rs.s.rstanlNoametk r , pm, an aysakydtceneahhanng,sgisseye. cp irlers.s.rstan:, Metk r,awy must n ne Dahpl dnesperfectlyy"ta to 'Metk ro bxp ybe "Shneiv kDaddy, ald.tocr My ofaees an evirydein "of undeAn nevirydein aysad, "t M shaat asrtnte afdpati en, sh aeveg teaa six mno,iaageid aif too, fng wn.any."toe.s." EfiOnyabs innonettthrfawa a n eepati en, a bltighmatmetd G8 a fhkio.ghlingissnarroweb wioppoyetsfmyo as so buefh facy wtwthoec lornordlrlseylchocolatedhardendata ffecrev a d ouefh kiokyi ahedut fiait ,fted dowonB fuldeutairkide matnfr o utfreonsvesHisseye.ewnsed ithAageerownht h clto As He fat up, pv e dnoingisselb hkl fld.r, "nailsnoingisselong t f mywan curlnw urkideheded, ar IlargtvH b soblwmkedyeoingissb wiwnse Hdrtmevendo buHissboborfeediihneasaampwe.y, enailsnsootd G tyndoc fhoeswoah, fie.eim of undeHoeici a wiat metwmoth on haIso bxp ybereeros so?eMy oeaa nissThoma Js Sed bxp b wiybereeros sosakydin?eMy wife, ff y dinw urkide saa nb wini dyythrseago "of undes nto 'shrad, "tIs, ehisthuth , at,ellskydtcndocbltighmat?to tar. to . rey as sThoma er loda.s.rstan:, to .sr ps mit gon ?" t dwoc'No,oDaddy, ayae qb Wse ce."nid ndAagewe forgeds muev "of unde"Hso o sft th asn oday,underr pGiv khimamortanana sh atr pY aabr aso,d ", we" ltomorrowrto tar. hmcr s snoleayso 'shr deeg teaa roop andat Nevwntairoma er huthHre"I bronlffhs a ur Myi"ssertrto tar. hmb, dochimat so tnana t h orinandmortack sh pm bus nto 'sh'saot a tsessad.stmd,f"Gootack,oeo rwveeim cxp btnana "of undeTaoma dut funagleg rbetsfthem mnleaysunpeewhetbanana shtaIrest Brti s he pstm der t h peewhet i fts.hpm, btenkost offe tmalatpiecewaa ffeedr lehimaby huthHreHs lic oe, palm of undehoLoke feed s r iren,eogmeousWl andiittleel."p,awy feedocalo doa imaWs alBronxualley,unto garb?r rcanw?to tar."Y ,opeogmeousW,oDaddydr. hgo de deefew minus snkcpemcr rto tar. hmcr s sc ride mditrnthroop,Tc ride fad asiDecho- beWesun cat or nipWe w'saialeoedandaonleaystar-bltigendatroof- topsft reh arnthns heQueeyes .Manhattat. .tou gloto eaynywngd ho alstcoe c ride sky,ef outoea yathee s hetce mppe w-s.s.308 s under the 228 trv neaulouneayaedte trv scdrM waryH b somar laydtcene, dicayomma l,dmditrnthnts.de aor repriev o tar.das ar npati ennin aerue Tetetrspits ghem pWe wru wlame,fslead as,a"Misy,sdharrybe gothemcigdrMtt ?" t dwocI orinandmordeuta feaccommodbs s pslresilt "SorTh,oIthnsky smokey" t dwoc undehOh,face faid haI'mesorThd ooe"of undeHehmcr s sc ride phene boo metripmpweg tit mae-aiphene bookwaa fhadaonleaysseat, stcor lettleayspai afflahostoc s hetce a Wveach cam glo tighshag tn ngd heieTceisk ntotdata ffea blwmoaipi k fld.r, "emovededandwa nmcn r,ecoatr leQueeyesipleseadctricutdezzli ewave uglr wdmut f iddenageAn neaposve aysfiys soI en-poundayedandAs." I m glo tighshamor I , s as , quie , mdts toea ywnto 'sh'satne Hre Iatttem.e w ht h faof etn wat as,s t tcfh roop astElmhudrsdHrspits t Queeye.cas n I fstcoead.stwthoes ar nKone n ly dnurkide b winexsdto.b ato 'sh,egisseye. s oseiaatisk nbith respiWat y tne rnthnts.eim of undeCerinin bxp mgh as so It fsleep as,ashrobaider m,d ir mina erhuth c ae" llkpthis, "aremoviparherslip.ee asft thsh freons ug tntmalatOrients wom tettleaysKone n'sabedt de,e "M enwi Wkdieltomorrow,dmayb hnexsddam anNo,ohenwi Wkdie tomorrowred to do s sfts'sh,emditrnthnts.snana lan t onred to ",ne Da,a"emd uatlashrobaide.ples'shrlip. o tar.d. peon ee bxp f y on eHfive sto id, "t M,arefadctr rSoun I know dnloand,l"Wi WmmDaddydB n, y athto 'shldie?" t dwoc undehNooM. mw, henwi Wkt thdie eousc oisttvFr "s.s.rstanTaysid ndfemass resident, an, n faa d,seye.eor l d,sen- tmr ntd iedte trv scdrM unit,obawoFresittn As te ays ngd h b.y, espim we" lncerid heids, aautds, arnthnnndth"Whn do iybe stay,umrur as inrerur?" t dwoc undeice anet 47309fi Ruuuu"I stayr'oabe m nto 'sh'saot a "of undeTaa tds, arnthout mpw,od faa hrelaxedrorally,at,elldoet y sayyoespim we" lnd heivocgethred to . rey as sthoeexs aer .o tar."Y ,obvttim,awy "Shh."p,.nfaenest worde."sli"orehuth J"of undeTaa nexsddam,fmyo as so-hlt uo, alert-id heidthrfaeaynys ar nKone n mbnogon , . ykide b wiI waemptyHfive sts n I fI wa Srd .de"Hso ie eI smandnder y.ttordam, o e ie "s.s.s.rstanTayryae arleleteensellsmanulouneayauneoinis r i Iho onowstrdeTh rnt,lbst te ayssoI en o ebio, aaandknow dnfh eratmaobyrAta."gen r.Doteaa "orek"ep" oist, hledge?five sts n I fb on hai. m ti hiaahu gry, svFred ago We fld.dharrewhlt rThey areWe.mcr s sc ride r,rtmias inride ad G dam,f, cn a taxie fld.spim we" lfel, ,t"Ybersmandhimamoradhe wdr pGlndrI do itn whr cn fhowea irior pep .y, espiemoved nuousW "of undeAn n ic iwe,rtn w mghm we" 'saot a of undehAihr hmandwe , drve ge ss ehtovy r,rtJ"of undeTaa idewtr Myw wa Srd ;awy a r twimpar supp ageAn twthon wudorn, si hisung me dam s.rstanTaysstor go 'shsaoforcel toew worIhst B ays ngd hy s tair, p te.eoattlew urkidehedgrosvSs,oeo sendatby.yto smg tcitm nrita,rborsostensell dhinleayssealew crev a d ous n I fyose ny sc w hc ahe, ov nung me vibrat onred to o Tho ayse cteeo eide adudana los ey mples ershuth J p S, "sr as sthoetoew worboop byr,nkost a fisteiplese afdhuth, tm,s lghbr as dnoie fisteowhetrono I , hcld asod, "na los mme cteeo eidew worell hest levil a muntrhshfawnsedrhandsonocyi ikrrhe Mske r.Throbel, subrde.a g tn alge's pleacsest Bb s fo dytecoiedshamanugethrexpe wd.o tar."Iawecrxpleac!" .llia aehtn. nm hrs Wvea 310 s under the 228 RuuuuM. mw,"aIl hy as st fI oftinm adaa faas r is p"Did an wecrxnsellts.did an feel ie plesy athteed?"ta to lNo,onovesn tncr ousayb hnnw,lelmosveeeonsyeyto sicld wecr asoeaposeoc. a tig!"of undes. mw, an df etn whr cwecr as w owycar m. lose wbxp ybe ve anwr ?"ta to lTru , . xp ybe skydrehl eI shi k . xp must bes rhr mmwecr asofld.r, n.to lose ewI doetn wogmeousWlwecr as w ve a wecr, ve anlose ewDaddydB n, poseowecr asowaar hfaw wabo fiittleea.royAto tar. heurcoaeo"imagody mhse th ordnowd;.tthrfacantn wb afirgmeousWhense th ordmhse th nsell ve anwas ewI tutee, e helalwhedmoreo s, forcng,se cteeoua,lbst aofe'sse ctee We wnoe wTue hl dnesdidlta to lisilcantn wb "or, an doetn w, hh'owrtpShoeut e flgryandle, posturrnt.o tar."Iadoetn wou a vgkb "or, I qb Wou a vgkew wo- rde."nenti "ed to lHowydeboryto snm. i m,f, rgednit,obeowecr as wom tof sayb hwaar todieln tncr ousayb hwaar DaddydB n Hdre henwi Wktncr "ed to -\4gh as so nmcnh. amiedeiv d ur Myenti ewEegoi lonthsrlatee w all w-ffea, we" lQueeyestrspits Jewis ansvFr hfaof etn wat as,sof etn wid aFred ainquireias inride iwe" opati ensHre IaeeeimtIs, ehistwristansvs snoleaysbhiaahisthuth immobileageAn neamcs ungry ouavsodoet ysdmbnoog ov ncfh aking?r yshHe flic r fogisseye.,funagleg rbel,-ak r eds aasdocll tsyshHe dinw wy, nfitd imrureturmyo rrival, cutsoree s h ps gy asest lras, aking?r yshHe hlt s tnw wy, nfitd ia adsais ffeln ce,-grionn As te,d,oI. m cerinin,esgodd asiFred ape we lor amiedlor a loore sell"mnot p apar vgkb s oserThey areWaar tobaider m,or I , mditrnthlintd isorridtsut de deetd iedte trv scdrM unit,o"s. mw, anot ie eHoeut fsasdoceeonsy-oneeyto sicldof Henwi Wkt thsuff lncyenti ewIt w hfh dwoc undeice anet 47311s.s. iita,rs ts whete" lfu. hat them me anwerreo s, Piotictomma lehersthee s hetce unwecrtee cteeo ede HreSde r,rswn. w e deutaa fhlow lfel, ,t"Wre ii Wkmnot me.nkdid?"s.s.s.rstanTaydein ano.ghdinw td imrusfaw wabeln t, eaysakrs, e.nygone ewI s oseietce oomm ride a old,,HeSieM. mwru gloto w e roopveswaIattlintd iw d tighc ahe, do n As cr peod, onarrowocyi ved fld.r, " hisuriigh stQueeye,c wned dh mMyenon'saritange fld.faan as,huasemov I en behild.s ouh a. iasemseacu ou e fppear M,sin,eout! Impritonmaobyr, nto 'sh'saspaceneamditanpants.mghm we" 'saot a g rcaandm h s hetce fiwgthabedroopveswntwthoemthywassoI en alo d,e Immandooroat or nctbidnot hem as e ertlaseep asrew woride oom dn,. m tob ride srack,onill dn aye fpold,,Hee.y, eburHeegarlic ewI srah, see.td ia apeeturmyo ace rtn meoraan asnloand ewI srah, see., nto 'sh'safaceaahisnats te,d ny scde Hreefh facy wttem.e metlintd iw he; We w ofashmyroop drapedhinlsienn twilkia antupa Tmeoedands sds, a ofaoniurkide fpold,,Hes, votrv scdteies flic r dnong r akslldDa turmyo as so'snaofe,feousWs at asealstntecsaasy o tar.d. petncrte istot a e wTueeI wTunnaofeageAn neaIaeetd g hol akmman ey ordhistsel,sred to . roseo s hetce c ahe, no Amer onimpritonma, miedm gloff r akih a neandat Nevwnleayssevineein cdteieoc. memohatr lpae, to 'sh'saiass?r o tar.d. peb on haaduda", I' Wkfeed eayssea guanulfts.ybe Daddydour wordDeeiv re. M cetaS in ase c ride nking?r raystaugoi lM,sfierc lghooviparffea, un, hn "p, etd te i o usoeoars w s uadfamilh,trrn. nmbycde HreMyo as so deutannw,lspi krs,- tmr pted r lehimac ae" lll tsdAagemody mtetce c apen r.Als ors JewtaIrsrah, t thsde."nre nrepe, to 'sh'sabiw ht h sel,rlrangsdocll ts aohgimlpubliclydr. hwrah, er c adat rbel,-ak r " Nm bwimultaneouslyhald.tourah, t t, ogetong r anutrm Augusdocmownt mvea 312s under the 228 Ruuuupetncrtemortn we" 'sateo s, bst nfte istot a vesn tnln. ywnm we" 'sahuth,tfld.spisey mdw ur Mdthrfain China shd. p on ee y on e,-ttnds meoknow dnmbnoteenriass w-onred to . Iatt.y, espide hstin hy lkpthsel, pa funbor loor tr m, a as so bu in ase c ride nyric ordhuth aa ffelthe, tmo sit or red to efh s ar ereeros sosIrt Gtrosa,rs st Bhistfnsvean ayssteht re nrepe, to 'sh'sacoff ndAage tsessa,f"Goa,fdonm. , h wbo ybe "Shgettn A?"of undeTaa nf thes aaWrsrah,ky lofa hershuth chundy as edanuoner tr meaa "oreassembled lintd is apen r.ir, p usfaw waAmer,le." fr, fitd iael,s nl hwn.deO ataenti,-t i ano.gofiy areWe. The nw td immo st in aerhntey bltighlimousinae owhetronoGe rge.Wid rnttey aondg sc rNew jerstyeneMy o I fb on sdftlm mples ershuth , "Bem . lieeiar debomear Mss cr peod,issbondg sc spr dnddne eouee y greslpoke kiosiuymme ithgrDaiccr "ed to n- y off nd urs aboc rvi eepiedf y iauli dgkgimlbagr falm'd,e.ples'shrlip.fhlow lmovipa h"HellooB n, hamfh,rfAto tar. herinande, toa a dn,.nuou,etn wou aiparffesee.td ihlt -poune" lfarewe Wveach caA uwelts whetcpcto g tn em aaWy,i alishesdctr rSs s ruli ung m(- Heby w Associ ey ordisheD"or, tvsodrior cautionma, "Stayrlintd isar t a cm mb toea ays off nd ride nrave.sefAto tar.Als peogmeousW tnw dsfthoemahogebor off ndIkseadct wisayutein re nre, dwshsaoy.ffeide nr cnyH b sonabb Yprayooaatishortn p ayor, 'rinan,twmoth on haLet usoetov l five stlNo," peb on h"ilmust d rhe M."toeer drs to tar. hb glo hem,lnill w-e, palm ge ss meeturg tnearthdtcndocmbnoteenrdisplaa ce."nioss w-ieton alishecoff n.o tar."Good-bye Poppw,"aIlwhisperwn . M. mwrou asoff e Da,acar m. wecrxplw?"s.s.s. dwoc undeice anet 473138 RuuuuH scdt wecrxm h Da t., hh r anuy, espim we" Mary'stedand of undeHoemmo s . xp y mbscheen.deHoemmo s .i, aaandthoemagicutturmyos r ihrve fairme' well myos r ihrve e " Iosts,Twy, etd pvgetey g tynti s. dwocano.ghre-sr as sthoe loh, nts.h vesd. ta tob re, tmo s,e Ihissdsfs.spim we" lfel, g r aksllll tsdbhrobaeeeimr fay s ushfaeo st" Netrspits rve einire nrep whdinws p"Dsky sman nder t. m in trspits JewL a herago to SwedenS"of undeHs l t metgo, . lieeretrinnoe alishesourceeturmyoaofe, se,rtnncerie,rt,i alano.g, tvsoinvinWornordtd is uckss, ordtd d"ep"akrs,,aahisnats teaofe'ssbiggest 'jokey eHoeut f "orean ncfh "or wdmtrinnoenking?r ry.ffemun n buefh wt fthoeot a g opawdr raahistwt fthoeot a ttndsgharreerb aot a y tar.d. peakrs,lano.g'seakrs,aahistakrs,l teaofe'ssiweatuea.of undeO ataeamcs fugitiv r secte,d s he ydSt ese thw-s.tn wnowred to Lung f "ton a rsecte,dse d-ietbiattost w rg tne I ,ocblesyrnteaofee.ples'umsnana e wdr rveswa do xp mgh as so, aliv ,ocIlstcoe c repm, v fix dnhy gazesftseps vocgeana uls ey orocll tsyshI see.epsdlung finhass, exhass, tne e nking?r , . lid do sft thwecrxepmsthe ewI doetn wbeliev h r a of undeHoesdne, "Whn ybe do xp my e hard?"o tar.d. peb y ,atsou a rcats ty athll tsd s hetce m der aloona y tar.d. heaahisMss sc oistenigmw, oist krs, e., piedf ake. fuldeut,yt whost t h sel,ost tutygxp my nonout red to Lkrs,ost!nds.s.s.s.s.s.s.314s under the 228 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuNineideneks." EfiuuuuuuuTme ndesARYs.s.s.s.d. Vfiriahetce propheids , ' isieri ordAarot,i ao xnsvFhrel ins ershuth;e fld.a,andthoewoI edm glo"areas inre .y, esvFbr twaa f.y, ede. Ms.s." EfiuuuuuuuTme oic-Exodus 15.-20s.s.s.s.On daytinsJuneoM. mwambno bstr .deO daytinsJune M. mwaposvee" llking?r y dwoc'ide phene ra l r. hw waAierinng,s rbun n, quie , atwhlt rou dbstraer wom t'saot a on haIsous plesy ath I , sittn Afaoniahb gchnc ny n to eishesupermCy it oI ecNevwn. w s rsman o er. hw waAeavr l, eaampwee" lftmelden, piedf eefmannowhe.I Ie ssr amandt i help,eishesupermCy it debhywasceta,ythrcall we fl ambul M,s meyhest Bhw htwam ann tt cwes plgs ,o bxper howtawaoaarryber nuousW "of unde"Wayryae spim we" ?"ta to lIinsky k Da sayb hide mathywasonows." t dwocI s a W nw fto ,.wiotisdhem as Iwom t'saphene nuo- beW, all w-fhoeicl a ,o be adcgeatrspits s,tt a cIsfecte8 s. mw, co tcious,od wait ahedyi v Iostsdhem d faa , o er.teetermisyrnt,Tc ubas , thrid rnt d reonsrlel, d reons tar nsvs snoleaysbhiaahshrleftr deeiner ,eparalyzsdveswnrg tnddne miedlonthsr rcosel tooif mywan oune" lleftr wah curlnw ursh r pelm, reoon huseadsss pShoeut fleft-mb, do s.rstanTayss ar nemergencyyroop physici tettleaysUnior fitm Hrspits ttlFort Lkrdordaleel holy on haTaysCATltc n fhowwtwthxp yberem we" lmbno bmawdrve reons-br,rtbstr .". hous 'l,HeSieH scr ,,nued haTaysovsd 's bxp f y ii Wkb 'niahwheel-s.s.siding. 1 1 e 1s.s.c ahe; ttlworst bedriddenaativegetabley" t dwoc"Wylltsaysov agleg rt wh?"ce e.se tnws p"She'ss "or, s h bio, thsel,enking?r ryeod .c. ."ed to efh s to sbith eyssonlic r f, pWe wru asiFr, edanuoner tcdrMfullylchosenaa"Ifdbhroburvivestn y pexsdfew ddnesshromDa ov agleg rusfad reonsr wah m faasommunicat y to tar. h " Yessmandhima d E wess not ente afdiwe" hleftr wah tr mleftr wahveswa do s sc reps si hisfacy miedfawoM. mwasman oFr, s ushfadon sd oftin,atsou a rdie,atsou a rsleep b.y, eBenS"of unded. peb on h"Pleatm doetn wogsuscse tnsb a I SieB g hol .ples'shS"of undeHs e.owerwn,."Iaiylltwiit sce mrdI SieGooto w , tnot ebomevaluaglesetr My.y, e,ww "of undehuM. mw,"aIlou as snol tsest.y, espide hs,."wnot up, see.,a,rsmandm hm. , hhm .". hog ov ntd ihlt r,rtt,.rst pad reonsr wah i ebina,aa fhlow log ov ntd ihostsae wnfawe" embnogrv n herof I p str,hmp irlrahuthHre Itayoo .ple o er,rsost rnt d w optoea aat tes meeunco tcious levil shee se thdnhy is s M.of undeTaa nexsddam,fFridam,fIeI wTunne" emrspits roopveswarst pad limp reonsr wah i rbody miedfel, gspieaa ,epughrnt fspif mywan inshae" lpalm t fI urah, pughotoom inffea bliah t "orep soner huthHreOwhetald.lwhe,,I fel, sesW taa : Mary, Mary.des. mw, s. mws pShoempenhetd eyssveswa do s sftsutahsel,eofundcognitr rvesTthrfawt fnone.t of understanding. nsk b RuuuuTaa nlgs plaa ce suctr r tub ins ersm derr p"Tcfh rg ov stn y phlegp,Tweinsky ou a hersffeaspiWat .".s. mwn p otlt uo, bangng,s de ahed.y, eaas op, hard,s t tce "oreiDa aat deme hs,."S ohoaloona !" Htre wah flaissdsfe,rtng bodyrou dbuones pShoeut f t tcerM,sfliv yfis.s.rstan.aorlwhrtr Myin aerushimrurestor ,eisheskpise bltig, eaynywatee souttiigh nlisherout,rs aost s hetce htov ns bxp I ts whetlwhe,,erinando ride r,dio . lid crteBeetelwhner crid omma leNin Hreefh d"oresymphenyveswnrg istfnrst soI en o ecelm, rtn meodhempbereelocmang all visibieitm,iIdfawoM. mw'sthuth iintd iw shield,yt whost shaFr, s k asiFrehe M."toe r. hous ti hiaadizzy o tar.deicl a si hn scr ? Ahiaawall w-i rboreo .r. herinandontwthoeignitr r,lts whetoutvesTthrfaueeI w,aa tlwheerinandco ,.bith fiiands flash, visibletlintd iwell harcoalnloand,lelocmang tce si vedvesCo s c ladct in puddwell watee splashnws pVisibieitmhous daer rouslyhlumseeyH b sonolh mpenipa, thnarrow ewI surcoyfis.s.rstan.a Tho nlgsrnt d. amrraer ,,Hes, funeralamrraer ,,Hes mied lannhetd utyg tighshaaofe,fshaat ? A fis.s.rstanMondam ann mcr s sc re" emrspits roop,.r, "ieln ce d"ep,ehtovyHre Iel, ,t"HellooMop,"eandat Nevwnld deutH b Her gy in eyssosqui a wia IhissJre Iel, espieaa nc re" nhuthJre Iel, ed, "ll tnmrspits ,ed, "ll tnstr .detobaideaadud, "Donm. t worde.",fdonm. , h me?"sSuddenly d gnabbwn. ye e h,empenhetd palm flatdt i loor,et i lan- ng?r ysho ov n yef mywanrnee id heC."Donm. ou a rsel,?"taIhest Bhw hf mywan th Attimptoet of Trm.td ilvttim dture" eown oeaa .sto ts whettwam anTi hiaah ea e wdr roblwmkred to . Iel, and Iel, ,t loor,ephrides: " atrrrrrr. utrm," oof understanding. oice anet 47e bittep 3178 ctldrrrrrr.lrase,ww rrrrr.cr My omorrow," 'see.,aunderrrrrrr.ano," " i mte whA"eMyoael,s wnsed rout,rexaggeras , penhtr aa l e" nbr,rtveswaIattdhem tem.e w ,fsmoo ed, "l i gssdoblwmkede fld.felthe" l ov HreSde r,rswn. w reonsr wah,opeoed dowFody mies.s.rstanding. I 1 b.d eaampwede hs,..d eaampwef mywanrneSf an Nevwn. yeface, ffel, std ilvttim dyhald.s,ed, "ll tnyes-Bhw hf rsllll t H eyWseon eeta,ythre wah wiphetb tto s s.rstanding.Tthrfacreg coincidena d ouTayryae Gody tar.d. soride ad G trekg tighshaat ? Aotegatmesuca dsfuluteinr,etrustr aa l einr,eddnesos sp ? Ahald.ddnesos aer r ouTay lonthsriass w-c rSeptcousWof I p stM. mwain aenlgsrnttwtr Moa fnve anese cew s poed believ edf y ia rtnnc we" trspits Jof unded. petegat.r. heirs, d waxp f y nve aneirs, ma, e" nhem aking?r ysh Iel, ed re" emumo ht h crur?r ysh id heCe "M. mw, donm. t worde." me?"sE afdsvFre iddhetalll tr ofrtrelumseey vocgbul Wy,icdrMful rcats ttd icomprehe troneks." EfiuuuuuuuTme ins erseyssvs." EfiOnyadam,fdw uroniasdbhrobaeemetlintd i oom dnnord et nroop,.shoeici a wihw hf mywao hem,ldhem pWeoleaysbhi H i, "xif mywasstehtbstraegoirtp,eishesel,hnts.n y puousW odyrou Ic adat rnd evsc re" emit ,rnd evsc r ydSt ec uitr rlbagr fk r e" lll tsdfts.h a . M. mw,nm. ou a rsan ybe nolhe er cene drve e h,emne drve leg?tpShoes st Bh deutrtpe fld. hem,lantmalat hisshons ersm derr pY ,o bxp meu a yes!o tar.T whost rapi lm, shro hy as lh iunevwnleaysmiddwe oroc w hc esteiplese" lli "xif mywa, tnln.iteupkse,rtnnts.n y puousW fo d H eyss wnsedat aseal,aiyllrnt d muntrtsc r yrou lisila eptceinolh "orep sonfh,rf?"ce id heaslow ,lk ,a- tiv lydr.Shrobel, d, "ll tnyes tdss himple"areany isomp or reds nickhene" lli "xif mywa, plaa citesdftlm owhetronoc We w oroc w hlip.ffld. y w innin aestraegoirlr sdhem d arn r.Throbel,pants.lo dsr M;df y ia lo dsr MJof unded. outsordnodthrfa nmcnhw hf rsll po taneous at ? A fis.318s under the 228 Ifigno hetd uloor,et mywan fly d . M. mw,nm. tcr s sbynys arsthe, alo d,eyberehem ll tsyshWo woful!"of undelisiloua,l, rged." Htreael,s wnsedsdft.five stlNotl, rged, ybe "ShMary, queey,sb a I S"eMy ohuth r srIte r,l"Als yberenking?r ryeoiniybereer,rtmia s oset ofuls ounll ts; ybe c n nve an, rged. Nve a!" .llia toosmuev ou Icout mpwespide hs,.est Bhw hreonsr wah i ebina,a do s sftoc w hstcor legy in eyssoempty behild.d miighcatcoacsrle thw, miedlouth sesW taa ofiy areWe.mditandald.d celic a rhe."asli outs s he ina,ah eyWsede. M, idw y hf mywan epman std ilvttim dture" eown taa oou lMary." Perfect H f mywan wnsedperfect Flu,HeS dwoca str,h.ddneswnsedtn wiandthoesetaS mcr s sc re" nroop,.pattas somar wah woI edmhorlr w td imian dnesurkidehe waaelc ahey,s la,amosvebeyo. ndcodeThvesn tnln. yatne Hre nywar s sc re" eroop andase thdntce htovytinstitutionalmftu-aipo s pMpiunatn. nmil tsdou as snol tses,o"s. mw, tar ff m !" butee, e he b on h"HellooMopmw, iw. anma, nder, glndr ofsee.,a?"ta to N rnd po saSorally,I t Nevwnld deut;s erseyss smindo fiy areWplesplayful f mywan tocr mb, do haCo,d,oMop,.spmannys arieaa nnts.h vesRgmeousW,oMary?"o tar.dftee soudeborweekwaa flonths, f y on e waxp sh xpecthmiedeickhene" l e h,ebst shelia tvs snoleaysbhi . lieocmbno, rgott n.to t a i herof Howysrah, saystar oshahersthe, howtasrah, saysthi k .plese" lwrist , tts snoleaysmets bhi frame?fi hog ov ntd iyi ists,Teo sendattd iypmer -lr w bracel t tcndocshackwhete" HreSde r,rswn. w ar nme anwerrdeut,ys st Bis,le." f.a Tss?r d.r, " hismCy s r cte e" lmrist.sto ts whettwam, rd evwn.ses,opattpwespide h;df y ia as she M."toe r.T rt wh, tr memandm hhe M."toe of undeAn n ic iwe,rtnm mbegat ttndsgne iyi uggthat i lan- ng?r :eide nuesyrnt,T aysfnnis ,espatialmft ? A Htre wah rosa, dwoc undeice anet 47319fi rhand, porswn-f eefumbled ailvttim, f y eurcoof I " Yesew wo- rde."s pMpi e he Srd th id heC."Donm. ou a watee, ice sr am? Donm. ou a rgo de, a n eerobf?"cH eyss ese oFr, "NortpShoeutvhene" l e hs te,d,outvhentutygmyu loorJta to t.begat we,rt . M. mw,ndonm. ou a rgo tr M?"o tar.H eyss shona,ah sfacy meiv k.plesconndctr r.o tar.H e he bhoteupk s hetce bhi "Y ,owaar go tr M?"o tar.wa hi "W, fitd idoet y smanulm hm. "Shbvttim to tar. hsrah, t thtnot e" emrtaS srah, t thlofa herS srah,s.tn w ov e" lm eonsr s hetce bhihshag tn aaelc aheHfive sto ado s sa st " llksteipgd ho alantmalatvi eeordtd gy in laem,lresil, yfis.s.rstan.llia Marev, e" lbio, dam ann- y not mdw noid ram, ni dycdteies "Ybereeio, damn oday,us. mws"of undelOld?"sshro s wnedlta to lisil "Sheeonsy-oneeyto sicldn oday."o tar.H feedr letub mbnoteenrog ov ;ag tn ait gauz, p dtasrvmr ntd ilarr rcanc rous uran n iee" lfcalp;ag tn rapptoesutturincr ,,nn cetsurreew wd e" lb ;ag tnfour-prmer ndco dyts e ero ushentftee sce brnot e" emipsstehtblintd isornw ht h shr igno heti wian.s." EfiuuuuuuuTme haIsouHeegediihll!"of unde ally,uuuuuShoei trst ur wordDeeigoida,opeteatma hai. m Mary!"of undelNo!"tshrobel, s pShoeici a wishamy miedfel, gtd lvttim syfive stwacla mpwespide hs.TueeI wTtvFr eswarst ne" l e h,eplaa mmae irlra m tattwmoth on haMary, Mary,"sn y eyllaglesevibrat nt fr, tob re,fhkio eswampenhetb a der w de,sesW taa irlr fiipsveswa aidemh mpenipalm noid m tatl p"Tar oM. mw,nsDa 'Mary,'rusfas ariot a "eMyo mywan purcoac re" elip. o tar.Shoeew wpstehtdr.Shrobqueezwd e" l der shua,l, rmrnt fr, lvttim m, Mary ann- yll tnperfecthnoid iipsvesa str,hse H 320s under the 228 wt fno secte: ayse cteenve ansa m, ogtak ? A, nfaeral ffengng,, nfamemohmnord etn rar w ot a y tar.Shoeutitandt i b s spo saSded. peb ont.y, espide hs, ".llia perfect Ybe skydperfectly 'Mary' plesy ath derr"of unde allyHappm, shro w happmy tar.Shoes oseied eyssvesd. peimagody neaIaeespim we" shimmh,trou atahsWl anngrtedy ride rhythmeordtd Charlest r.o s.s.rstanAishort aseidam,fa soI en'sarespit ,fentioshat wlythrahbn iass wShald.toudw in Santaunosa, Califownta shdimrusff logst urlintd ikih a neipgd h'sasu. utrm Hre mdts gtdds aottleocbltighinsdct buzz helpadssth ite ays ngd hp te ttndsframe gtd garden vista: ayshug ilavew worlil, tao eisheNilel tooiroyal-s.bloo wd dahlias,ed, "ne ilushirosasyshHe keptoraan asnpWeoleay saa ncrev a ,iyi uggthd, ov noigo aneswary fthoeeuner he miedr, fisli dhemJewis anmrusff logy as sthoe' jorinam,fatasr ,,nu asrep fld. hemim wr r,lrefadxive r.Throdistractr r s arifihetb solered to . retrinnoeeolFlorida,i alishenlgsrnt d. ,i als. mwss.s.s.rstanTwodlonthsrre nrep w hde , I p stey ano.g'sehrn, atalushierownhfedora,aa ffelthgissb llyakrs,Hre foteiew td imit, ts whettce brim. hem,lcdrMful t thsh brueacsit- y mbnottr lgocll n-ietbe nrep iss hn " afiv ksu. fsasdveswa do s sftpae, tocetlintd imirron, pdornmaobyrano.g'sehrn, amothmindo- 'l,drwve aysfnmilias.ac enasti Wk'n h'sehrn, at h'set Nev, at h'eks." EfiuuuuuuuTme1 1 1 1 1 1 nfh loore sellese cFr, "Als istfnnfAto tar. hsauWe wnoepWeolM. mw'stroopvesano.g'sehrn w ocmsafaoniby deut,fan neaIaee so at aseals e hsteonslghb cteein a iaddhetbitt,td pallorngrDas pShoeut fpropphetcpcin bheCe he wd awin aepd evse hs quaerobf,s erseyss vacandveswasli ursh of understanding. oice anet 47321s.s. ir aroop,Ttr wd awspieoses rhers,Te ckhenb deutaa fgrion s p f.ats whetofun ee dmiigh ait bitt piedf eestr n. yefaceJta tar.H uloor,ee" lli pe Tetsase tena da nmcnrughrntsftpa unde"Way Myh."p? Howyad G h."p? Fehtbe wrible! Ho,d,oIs.s.Fr esing. 1 b ou a homfAto tar. he.owerwnte afdsilt r rlslow ,lmdts toead faa ,le." fwaar shro ddhe,s erseyss riora wishamina,aIscr ,,nued haYan "Shh."p f ckhplemonthss"of undelToootd G tvFr eoufenti!"ed to . rea a fo feco tol w ht h nts.n y f rsllsvFreshrobel, pae, to 'sh'sataa : "B-E-Nr"of unde allyI plaa chisthuthnoid deut,fg holy.o tar.H e hat Nevwnleayshrn, amottaar shros st Bh duth, urg asiFred asel,h ee dmuntrts bxp f y srah, t thinit at . lInywa a rsleep .y, eBenS atsou a rdieJewLofeeowhe.I Iw. anenuntrr"of undeShrobelAhiaareliev e.detobaide eru loorJr.H aphasia mealanpants. ayssoI en byr, nde hs.five stwac aer datve sehtdr. M. mw,n do ,es i waxp waoaar, ticalgey g tynu,oB n, ,riendd,amy mied s he eboryto s seoo"eAn nene by o d,e plaa ctoom inne" l e h,epicalgey g oc w hynu , oun eru edd asidamnsixsy-oneeyto sire nre, g ocFao.ghmiedAbraham-e" l we" lncerfawe" ,eedreeros sos, g oca ira po.g, oune" lfriendd Sadre ncerRuben.deHo faa ovame gasdbhroiee ceworlife inne" l e hsvesd. taar er.teo s sa m, inlsiln ces pSimultaneouslyhI wiphet ee dto siny sc w s.c eekwaa fmb, doch" lnepicalge ounLouis K.eHo faa nloande, pafld.r, "se c hisshretrinnoeasdbhrobel, d, "phride "Foolocar cte! to tar."Y ,oM. mw, henhl dnesfoolnoear cnyH bMTho usoff akrs,le hard.". h pe Tetsde so ae tena ,nsDatoead ll tsdAs ff y irah, er chai ctoom r yrs.rstan.aorlpphetiandthoephotographw noid bhi H hstcotlanpanaceaatcoead.samy mn topir cettpweLouis K.'sede. Mear cny e" nbma, miedmaar nfaeneswa looseal,aInioss w-myu .e su. H 322s under the 228 Ikirt lwhedmordeutairka gestlge typicgeaof ano.gor.d. petncrtoc w hlkrs,HreO ataentiupetncrte ayse cteeo e w hot a vesn orlpphepae, Ikirts pShoekeptoonhlkrs,nats te,y crude ncticsveswago 'shsa fr, picalgey gnleaysbhi . lieh ewctoom aa herS M wr r asiFrr ofs ohohy ilay,um e hain bhnedictr r bel, ,a"eYbe hse oFyamemohmnstr ng!to tar."Y ,oM. mw, I ase cy ath wah wl tsdbtr ng."nds.s.s.s.s.s.s. b e anet 4 of understanding. 3238 anojamin the 22:rSeptcousW 26, 1903-Augusd 4, 19848 Mary the 22:rMarev 6, 1908-Nov IusW 1, 1989fi .. ntwt - .nds.s.s.s.s.s.s. b o '8 RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuEPILOGUEs.s.s.s.s.s.s. brrr.dthrf nrepftmeld God henhlgryandlth aot a , mieddlt roy d, "ll kao eis nde hs?s. b -Ecclr iastes 5:68 4 i8 Tayryae arleleteensellsmanulounal anngrmsnaname gMcCarthy wbo mbno bsp ? Ahimpedim en, a msnample"areso dnoingisr ongu .deO day,ew whost gnleaysnr cnyulounalgyald Irish sastla,ythrIaeea damsthain distrdsss pShoembno,all nta ffea fwntee yi v IvesRughrnts re" eaide e ts whete" l s hetce c uwnt mnywatees pShoeut faamplevse hsoff dochimaaampsh, a fiwgthampsh, s uadrewaryefabliaviparherslifey eHoeid heC.mple"are e.se tr r, olingissmumble, vgkb agleg rbk r properlydr.Shrodirdct eimr alalainam Castla'saiarapet,idthrfa y irah, fild.aestenes...e fld.delia to eiswntd iyio d So gresleaystaleeturg tnalainam Sio d So gresleaysgnteeturgab,eishesmoo rt wh,eisheIrishrlileS dwocNotlso-t i ano.g,et i Mary, tayryae noestenesnts. aose wb rhr ve anwncrteme irdso d, eaysakrgh nlishewrnt,lbst fr, ryae selody ouTayryae selody!.Throb cnyulm y croasrfld gnat ,fscr ? AdAage tsesi alishewecr asose th,ebst r, ryae 8 selody ouTayryae at wriasnts.eviryde"orehuth, a fihlleturgune- l syrbun nsnts.eviryde"oreot a ,obst r, ryacreg ds, a s, nfpanairmegodmos sos, noestene to eisw, noeblainam .c. . noeio- perfecthe cteeshamakedperfect Iw. a.I Iw. ana, we" lnking?r ,e fl we" lde. M: iasehem tall t, iasehem yi ut, iasehem g rgeou e na e wdr rv dwocano.gh w mghalainam Sio d,fmyo airmegod as so buTay elocution l sy rsaaysgharreerihneasonfinnoe alishegraceeturmy ohuth ,i alishecurveeturmyoneig, ealishetilteturmyodeut,ytoleay lnteeturmoreysbrow ewH scdutionmaiFred ab s to ,. rbk r .ple ompenide hs,..y, ean mpenimear As He fh hwn. t exqui.sefocarhythm,ctIigr,ltsns toeafld. yopptoe wl tsdpWeoleaysahe, opat innl syrpoe,,ctsr asr rvesNo,osp ? Ahof etn wperishriingisr e hsvesT s, s not toesteneswails,. rp apar,. ra imaWs, r yrou Heneirs, maw owyshamakede, e he akrs,aa of lutk ro bNm binlsnow,all,. rpe wd. hemiwy, etd p,Ttourrnt r,rtton alish citmiemovedsyshHe eirs, maw aliurniby wrist in delic a rslow o r r,l rpeayr'oaGve ge ssupplic atoeer mywanrneHisthuth jumped, ocmang tcei f me ea e wdr r,l rmumo hmM.of undeTaarfawt fno ieln cetlingiss e hsvesT s, ihneacfh aiterasuea.of undea stwaar towt fs ar er,neamditandt i b aiterasuea.re nybeliev ed bxp mghot a mdw utuck dumbmbycde r wd,o bxp ie.eigr fil. nmsornw r,epurloinno, 't'er,lel dnesmdit'8 inlsing. 1 1 rnts emergeS atsouitandt i b aift toestar t ge srehl nking?r , ot d-pounee hsvesMyr'ongu irah, at asrfld.t thloeeiner tin hy o der tn tos not .y, espide hsveswa ierins snol traer ot a sn p actic asiFrlod, taI urah, umseat . Ilou as snolenunci mme ctere sellurah, plaa amy mmog,s de wecr aso nrewhe.I Ie ou as snoleride , nde hs.five std. taar,s t time'saiass?r ,aIscar wd awspide hs,. yef rt -pot a vesnnlisheen ,t loor,evolumey g t loor,ealat el, ,t hse Hisheeloqu,Hesmetsphoreturmyoaofe.TueeI wTtde nking?r reoin-pounee hse sellu w mghbegionn A fis.330 under the 228 Ruuuupepin asm?r r ride nking?r rtos not a faas r i,ytoleay lking?r rtosti Wkat as,stn winpatios, bst wl tsdrichlh "finno, 'b'lu asofld.voweWs, Iel, and Itn. nm'nde"oreot's.s.sid1 1 nfa ,ledbtr ng bind asico e.sv kot a link asiFred apifey eThroastenighrnt fll tnpdwsh unleathmaobyrsel,hiss sc r Mssep n buA,himme thaipowen, pdco tataecurvor nipe srainbowys arityHfive stGne imyeri y resides wy, nfitd icrucibletounee hsves Wy, nfitd imateensellat ass dsfthoemateensellt Nevwa.I Iw. anas e erteensellmeals,ed, "erteensellpaasofwaydtce dto sinsellalip. hemtwthoec eek.I Iw. anas "erteensells asps plesiweatuea. iw. anas "erte aat comforts,ed, "erteensellwiphstn y perspiWor nbrow,nas e erteensellcupstn y s totlintduntrt.I Iw. anas "erteenselltea a s, nsellrea a s nts.n y butk rf ,lksellat ass waar ll tsdfail eIt anas "erteenselldooeies and Icribgles,lksell pe us srfld calculates.I Iw. anas "erteensellpluckwaappadsl s heSeptcousW nrees.I Iw. anas "erteensellwateestn y plu a,lkselldiep stn y baby, nsell Tss?r s and Ioo s.I Iw. anas "erteensellfigey a gum,ldrawwtwa sausW,oreiny a horse.I Iw. anas "erteensellblesyes,lksell y ases, nsellpai as,lksellwiit s and typ s.I Iw. anas "erteensellt Nevwae fl we" .o tar.He hseer chtorie to sman, tareesos aer rhmiederas, os pai mied leatuea, g tynuer t h ?r yshHe hsecluts ttd ideutairkwoe, olingriefyshHe hsewror nipe sunresolv ed r?r nd, lnteeipe sjoyrou He he bhovil g tnearthde."nrury tce "odyshHe hseconourucee ykyscrep stAagemody g tnearthyshHe hseIoo afld. emeu rou He he hugfaas r is pHe he bang, slam, balattp,eclgs t h c usfutfreonsvesWy, espide hstwaoaarrquie annhlgryas r i,ya freons- enhetdumsnabetoe r. hoaarrprayoo .y, espide hsvhey areWaar tobmoo rspide h lwhedpdcor dayellowycarary tsutped f rambunctr us c laid,fmyode hst, hh rrodiff d cetli tmxtuea, rrodiff d cetliride nift bhneathnas "erte.reWaar hy ostom afdhurtstwarub mghbellydr.Waar tofoteieitd icrimsonfyose pets Aageer asnpsdto.b aeoses r hmandiaseswved fromw, iw. a oFyaerteensellc rrihstn y fromw. dwoc undeice anet 473318 RuuuuMyode hstarepe, mesyeer r ouTayymemandm htd iyi a rg ocfl we" lwaar tof akeide hsveswsinsella limp deutah. lieerece mmorryeoilla mear yaerteensellpumpsrspide h in 'joy?.Waar tomeet os.rstanding. ie f n eep son,ya p sonf bxp Isthi k m y ilaywinpartm'ndsce mrb' os.rstanding. I 1 itutturmyoaofe,fwa do nts.discodeTh nfitd imatesyshWehoaarrpe wesa f'I atheye.,ffakeithoeot a , bst wyacreg tlso-adroinninr alven o id asi ath wahsvesT s, cregmpen of undehoDoetn wsel,hin.r, "emovedvesNotedy r, hhwyacrege"orrou Notln a , tn wsaf "of undeTaistwt fmghm we" 'sacr mb, ,logy as sth tob ost fr, eyto s St aseals e hsecontar w shetaS bip mghnailsoff r a Srd ,ekeptotoom uglyhald.outsordsoand ewI acquiesa ctvFr as inrivFred amghm we" 'sane ,tkeep asre, e he bti Wkinr public plaa r,epiotict asresd s hetce pe r dn traer ageAn twthon eerebellehJre Iel,gmpenlyannw,lspinailsofrimlbag msni- curwn .Myode hster asnFre'joy;ag tyla eptceitalismsnaturmy opifey eThrytarepe, f rsllgnte,. yef rt econtaceeipe snking?r , e wnf rt econndct ysd rmumat t Nevrs.rstan.a, h myode hstat ilay ous n I feh eotdat ait tasrttey yi isthbvtwear er.f mywan th sr as sa horizontal lkddees pShoetnln. yaf mywan in hershuth and Itn. .plese" -pot a ,trothshuth occupihiaare ov n sign: "Wdts ,oIs.makedm. oo woful, a msgicr"of undeShroeh eotdattd iyi ist ta tob re afdif. yaf mywan,Te ckhe r adesil, "fslgh s he ydde hs,.loophetloopsear cny e" nthumbstwmoth on in ot a ,t" See,fwamakedfl we" lpicalge." We playoo fts.h ars e h in athilaywshe eirs, maw d imiracwe orocyi ist sculpsuea.of undeI fh hwn. ylfriend waxp wape wesa piedf ees on haTaxpertwthoecxper cradssJre , hh'ow rdof bxp of undehCxper cradss,ecxper cradssJ". hogmmo sta piedogmmo sta eaynywl tsdoy, espi'ongu 'satne Hs." I m glotr Moa f el, ,tM. mw, I , hhtaa rocyi ist getaS w. an'cxper cradssJ' os.332 s under the 228 Ruuuu"Nve anwncrteso iellyha taa oouCxp mbsc cradssJre w. ana gaFre pe we inlschool nts.n y e"orr"s.rstan.aorlpphetd, ona Moa fkeptotoo getauweltlayoo in.r, -pot a dif. ath wahsvo tar.wa ayr, nde hsfe,rtng ays ngd hdif. yahem dousfut Da ttevibratssveswaflattar hylpalm te,rtng iasesurfacy mieditutreson a siwy, etd se cteeo eM. mw'stso dvesn tncr g tnecho oreot a r,eefld.voia d ouTaynechoesdbtrikeithoec We w or myos lt rou I"emovts toutee, e h w optoea o ase cfasdveswac n photographutahsel,hetctk r M,sbst nftea"ll tns cnyH bInaudiblel tooibel, pall tsdArrives te,y visio, unclutk roo .y, e ngdtso d, tsut irdso dlts.m t'saso dvesNo fiwgthae cteedistractsdm h s hetce olik , ey ordishe e h'sdm anor red to ee hstin hosr rves"Way,"ce id , "a eptcepise bedutiful?"taIhstr etce payuloun yaf mywatips, elicitrnthperfectly perfectr fk ? A No impedim end ouLking?r ry. hosr rvesI t Nevimyeelf fwaar Ikat as,sI feel mghbedy c sp ? A, nftaeral sp ? A;. hoaarocfl we" lwayr'oasay,i alutk r, to sman:. hoaarrano.g'sewam an Lking?r rnlt s nfitd icupeturmyode hs,.rhandson"na lod .ple fll tnso d, t. m burttost,fwamusd emandm. oaxp waoaar.discod- erwn .Myode hstvault,emne owhetrono I .uuMyode hstarepadud, sosgne ie spiexcite,,HeSiet. m pughrnt ybe no.td ia melden: "Lierin,a ierinson"oaxp waskyd.c. . s i waxp was iS"of unded. td iyi aer rhatcoestat mey eHoedo s Yesew worde." waxppae, Iel,s sam anHoedo s Yesew worde." myodeu ist-i"orehuth Jou I"i mtlra m tat: "Ldo ,e do !" peb y, amottaaiyi aer rhiurns ny scmcHreefh facy smanulm hnsellmesthi kset. m madSiet. m nolhe sp ? Alesw, nosr wahadsssfis.s.rstan.ll ana, we" lmownt mvesn tncr me ird ouTayn irdei trsts, deme h asoeapierinson"iasewhistla,yiasereacsesoaofe,ftncrkinng,saanny11 wy, nfiraer turiaseca . H ia mend ouWre ieod,issbirdeksellatopss.rstanm h s hemghm ,,He?swagooto fild.epm, vofsee.epm, vofjoin oof understanding. oice anet N 47e bittep 3338 h'saso dvesdbstridenllrendco dins ,eh'sa hisfakmm mut nung meocmownt msrainwashAs He fiasea ohoa wir ,fscr Iostsnnw,len ncfh ot a dnl hss cr peod,e ahedc r ydbedroop,dc r ydper, orel hol sstlingisscry fts.he sat . Orryeoilltd isardins 'sehem S, mw,ns menost,fogy as aso nr maw d i loor,e"Hncr 0 Israel,twthoeLl tn athGoa,fthoeLl tnyeoOnfAto tar. h, hh rrosardins 'semun n bun tt cwecrte istco ticla,ytfh sympheny in ne tsrehot a vesd. pe, hh rrosympheny rocano.g'sehr hsveswaer chear is,le." Iaiylltel dnessee.it.of undeI ferrano.g, mgh as so, wy, etd seea guanulgnleaysbhach, rde."ng,samog,s dem t ftcepif leswary f iss utemovts pahuth chsyrntedryatne ddpWeoleaysahey eThrythowhetme anwim, squawhost t we" lfo d, pecmang atte afdiwe" hurkidehedAttimptr alpluckatne ddny sc im ouTayn irdsacr esc reps e h,emne ungo d,funafr on hici aang tcei b ass a muntrhg tyla e Hdrvrnthpelic ns, amothwntelgh lutk rang tcei wrntsr ride pew- tmr sew, oei bne ddprepisaf of understan"Openibag,fentiotne ddnorngrDa guanu "ed to n- ybag. anemptyJre I akeiilo"arein.r, "eanyH b soguanutasrmeobst r, y doetn wl mywasxp mgh eet,s meyhsnats ttd icrumbse fld.flm off, circl asre, to 'sh'saialmsTe ckhen alisheskyHreefh ohuth ,ial muntrhempty,erece eide nuanu;ag tylaloand amottaartwthoyfscr ? AdAwam ann clwhedmoreo s .y, espide hsvhey are"Whaw. anas "mat in?.Waxp ybecwecr? Bombs?five stlNo, Daddy,eide nuanutarepungry ouavsyamakedsosmuevut DisM,s meyhalat cr Ioaloona s"of undelSea guanuler cot a ? Isthi k tvsyamaked DisM .ple flists,Ttar o.y, e ngts,Teikeii"oretar o.y, ede hsvto tar."Y ,osea guanuler cot a r.Als irdsaer cot a ,"ce in- owerwnvhey are"isthi k nolh parrotetar ot h c rary yrnts"of undelSrmeobirdsayrnt,Ts meet wh,es meewhistla."of undelisilwhistla?"five stlNo, Daddy,eIinsky eikeion"oaistla.r.T hard rdopants.mey" t RuuuuH sspne dd istc eekwaIs, ehistf mywan,Trst ntce bre ny scepsdlung ,epurs chistlip.ffld. xpe whettce ahey eNn"oaistla tcdrnesntsth)vhey are"Wman," henhd heC."I"oaistla ahe, not feel s cnyH bTe afoca whistla."of unde heurcoabst hsrah, t thte afdepm, vaar,sts.evir,h'ow fwaistla.r. hsrah, t thte afdepmleaysbhautmnorde cteean aystaugoi lMleaysbhautmnordde hsvhes.s.s.s.s.s.s. b e anet 4 of understanding. 335 t q8 Pr,rswdnornnder tn thln ce ".n thln ceae at unusus Aageaffict asrbdo ,ealoona a memoiw or grow dntpe urbatnncerin"na lor ey ordishenift ordishe "oreaseew wpstehtnung meeew wor, As fwecr asop apar m y thi k nrdishmsthv stas inrne d asonder the 22'satdo vhes.Itanas Mss repadvy miednking?r , rothsnrdishm bedutiful logw wpoo in oearr v l -juttos,Kaplu , Aderornordtd iPulitzinrPrize-wionn A oof understanding. biography Mieri Cle,,H.ffld.MkrghTwain oof"nder the 22'sa.n thln ce,aa taccouen o eeworlife .plese" l "orepar,Hes, ana btr ngrmumat pWe westehtorys bxp f rah, fppealyshamany i apar whe I sts.nottwthoyfeiv k i lo o.y, e "orep sonss.... [Her]atdo ae arpoignanllremit ernordtd panacta d E wesoaarryetoto fild. d i dnese." meantao eie afang all "ores r irartw'ow rreutaa fwiit sce n v nking?r rordtd isouenrihstirkwwned thoyfeiv r"of unde ally-WylliaheE. Castla, Pieside a,lAlexat ernGraham Bmannych caA soci ey nts.n y D"or, N eyannych ca TechnicgeaInstitute nts.n y D"or oof undeWefeiv o in.rwoe loh,s t fI ut fgrow dntp, athiriv a r loh, amottaa "wecr as"r loh, uteide r. hw waoniurtisat be wmwaIs, eieln cetamottaainking?r rorr filn ces pButee, par,He'sehral ll tsdhit wecr asoeo s eikeijaggedestene onfyooftopsrou dmot1,lantmalats r i,yhuasre, eut,yunagleg rbk r in s to sse tena dvhey areMyo as so ano.ghstr n. yedeutaa fIel, ,t"Nve anmit ,rwecr asonottwew worde." "oreiloorJr.Stupid i aparr"of unde allyMoreo s toande, .of undeWefeiv o in.ison ey, cel brat ntrlife inn athquie enalave ous n I fIel, , ".soaarreh eeln a aroops),"eandalintdusrreh eeln a aroops, wy, e"drve fuwntalgey,"taIhg ewcup-my s ar ereeros sosFrta pied1.us n I fwathmaoclo s ira lMts wathboard irctlde ngri as innoonn th sr as sa flt rvs Jof unde"wamakedutrm steam, makedroopsdutrm nts.s r irar,lsnow uteide,sbst ,hse H hw whde."nm. ortoeafld.wesoaarrtmalatpar yants.us alo d."b sonking?r rous perfect M. mwrou perfect Hnsedshfawt fnots "or, aarfanfaenesatcoead.samywnm we" 'saoo woful Iel,gso dvesWerihnealingtrmonyhald.toudw utrms pButetn wsaf -ny scnder the 22'sa.n thln ce oof understanding.A $elstanding. Literary Guiles.s.rstanding. 5 18 9 5s.s. b 9 78031 2 045890 t Ruu