Gam 'atem: Please note, the emphasis is on the second syllable. In Yiddish, 'derived' from Hebrew, in the North End of Winnipeg, in the '40's and '50's, spoken on Yom Kippur. I was reminded by my mother to say gam 'atem when someone said: "Chatimah Tovah" or "L'Shanah Tovah Tikateyvu veTikatavu". At the time I didn't understand the words, but it wasn't difficult to remember the brief and proper response. I was rewarded by a pat (gentle pinch) on the cheek ('a knip in bechl') and I was pleased as, of course, was my proud mother.
The Peretz Shule taught me about all the yomtoyvim. During the High Holidays I joined my girlfriends – let it be noted that we all wore new clothes ( my mother placed a special emphasis on new shoes. This was a family ritual). My parents were not religious, not even traditional, but there were certain things we in the Jewish Community all did at that time. I also fasted on Yom Kippur and felt virtuous, and Jewish. I knew I was Jewish; I was a student at the Peretz Shule, full-time, half-a-day studying in English and half-a-day in Yiddish, until Junior High, when I studied in Machray School, and High School at Tech, and continued with the Shule, with the 'hekhere kursen' (advanced classes) in late afternoon/early evening hours. The vast majority of my friends attended the Peretz Shule, though some studied at the Talmud Torah, where the emphasis was on religious practice and on the Hebrew language.
So, my parents were yiddishists. No religious practices, just 'yiddishkeyt'. Definition? Oh, that's a tough one. And indeed I had a difficult time declaring and defending the fact that I was Jewish; not to my Ukrainian neighbours, who frequently pelted me and my best friend with snowballs (in season) and showered us with insults because we were Jews. My problem was with my friends, whose mothers lit candles on Friday night, went to Shul for Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur, had a menora during Chanukah and baked homen tashn on Purim. Oh yes, my mother baked homen tashn too, and she made latkes for Chanukah but not because it was the traditional thing to do, but because her yiddishkeit and her yiddishe mameh status didn't want her children to be left out of this part of the yomtoyvim. But this was insufficient to convince my friends that one could be and feel Jewish without performing the other rituals. I was told "you don't do anything that only Jews do, you don't have a kosher home, your parents don't go to shul, etc. etc., you live just like the goyim." I was tongue-tied, because I was unable to explain matters which I myself didn't understand. I never bothered to emphasize the fact that I studied at the Peretz Shule, as the concept being emphasized was the home; and it didn't help to add that though my natural language of communication was English, mameh-loshn definitely played a major role in our house. This had no connection with traditional practices, obviously. (Incidentally, there were certain visitors with whom it was understood that I spoke in Yiddish, friends of the family and, of course, teachers, like Cantor, Zolf, Zeitlin, Lapin, Miss Fingarov, Miss Kraynis, et al, - and especially, of course, the Golombs. Avram Golomb was the school principal and Rivka my teacher during my first three years of school. Yiddishists durch un durch (parenthetically, they also knew Hebrew). An aside, if I may: this is meant to be a brief overview, a chance to reminisce and recollect. If I start talking about the Golombs I'll find myself writing a book, a voluminous book, like those Avram Golomb penned).
So – staych! I lived in a dichotomy. Peretz Shule (Yiddish), Talmud Torah (Hebrew), Sholem Aleichem Shul (communist (?), Habonim (Labour Zionist), Hashomer Hatzair (officially recognized as enemies) Bnei-Akiva (religious), the 'Y' (which induced ambivalent reactions: too goyish; attended by kids from different, usually wealthier sections of our city, and thus tinged with a touch of envy of all the facilities at their disposal). Which of these did you belong to, what defined you, what was your second language (or didn't you have one?), were you orthodox, conservative, or – zol Got ophitn – reform (not really different from being a Goy!)
I was the daughter of one of the women who was among the founders of the Peretz Shul, and its many facets such as the Muter Fareyn (Mothers' Group) , the Leyn Krayz (Reading Circle), a permanent judge at the yearly essay contest, one of those who decided who would be the new principal(s) after Golomb, and some of those that followed him, left Winnipeg. Her vig-lid (lullaby) for me was "Rozhinkes un Mandlen" – in fact it was one of the only songs she ever sang. Yes, ma was a lover of, a champion of, an upholder of the Yiddish language. And my father was of course always alongside his 'lebns-bagleytern' (lifetime companion), and stood out in his own varied activities, in the Shul, the Jewish Congress, the Library, he was the first Jewish president of the Chess Club; he wrote numerous articles which were published in the Yiddish newspaper which his brother Mark edited. My brother followed closely in their footsteps – not an easy task – Zalman and Rivka's three children attended Peretz Shule (for Rivka Yiddish was the genuine article, the mameh-loshn which was THE language spoken at home); and their oldest grandsons, those that remained in Winnipeg, were students at the Shul, in whatever location it stood; until the time came for the youngest, when there were only three grades at the Peretz Shul (on Jefferson) and then you studied in the amalgamated Talmud-Torah/Peretz Shul (gvald, who could have imagined such a thing years ago) and on to Wolinsky. At any rate, my dilemma during my young years was never really solved. What saved me from the sticks and stones of my dearest proselytizing friends was the fact that I myself did go to the synagogue, I did fast on Yom Kippur, I refused to give voice in public school to Christmas carols (so childish, but hey, I was a youngster) – and we all grew up and our points of view and understanding matured.
Ma passed away too early to witness the sad demise of the school she had spent her life working in and for; Pa, I guess, witnessed at least the beginnings.. And Yiddish diminished, faded, was said to have disappeared forever. Winnipeg was no longer known as the Jerusalem of Canada. With the establishment of the Jewish state, Ivrit became the number one second language of the Jewish community.
But the memories last, the understanding (ven du vest elter vern vestu besser farshteyn) of the role Yiddish played in 'the old country', in the shtetl, during all the years of 'the wandering Jew', in Europe, Latin America, Amerika! etc. And the literature, the original Yiddish stories and books by all the unforgettable writers we read and loved, has been and always will be preserved, as literature is; and it has become more precious to me over the years. The Hebrew or English translations are appreciated, but not loved. They never really capture the nuances, do they; the feeling, the words that are truly untranslatable, the 'oy vey iz mir', the 'stam', which is now a Hebrew word, the 'staych' I mentioned earlier, the 'boydem, alte zakhn, langer, lefargen, nudnik, shlep, chutzpeh and ever so many more – most Israelis are not even vaguely aware of how much of their vocabulary is rooted in Yiddish – and yes, Americans, goyim, too, have adopted a great many yiddishisms. And now there are universities in the Goles (pardon me, Galut) that teach Yiddish. And yes, in Israel too.
Gone – forgotten – no, never, say I, with a mixture of love, pride, defensiveness,
stubborness and determination. And I, my parents' bas yechideh who grew up with yiddishkeit as a basic, religious rituals learned and practiced thanks to relatives in whose circle I became a permanent fixture, live in Israel, not exactly the hub and home of Yiddish. But my ears always perk up when I hear Yiddish spoken. And quite a few years ago, when working in my first job here, I discovered a few members of the older generation who were pleasantly surprised to find a relatively 'yunger mentsh' who spoke, read & wrote Yiddish fluently. And loved it. And it was our language of communication. Their surprise at my knowledge of the language saddened me, indicating as it clearly did that this was a rare occurrence. Be that as it may, the attachment grew, and Yiddishe vertelakh became more and more a part of my everyday speaking – at this point I must make the sad confession that whilst my parents spoke Russian in order that my brother and I not understand what they were saying, my husband and I spoke Yiddish when we didn't want our sons to understand. Chaval; pity; but perhaps forgivable, or at least understandable, as when we came on Aliyah they had to contend with learning Ivrit, and we had to try to help them maintain a basic knowledge of English, the all-important, internationally spoken language.
But I'm keeping up with mameh-loshn, and am doing my best to help it thrive; working with the e-mail program 'Mendele', transliterating for a number of years from Yiddish into Roman letters so that those who want to read about the old country, the shtetl, our history, our ancestors, and can't read Yiddish ( tho' they understand it), could read it in Latin letters; and translating. And speaking the beloved loshn at every available opportunity. Last year I had a fun evening every week close to where I live with a number of Russian immigrants who know 'a bisl Yiddish' and want to hear and learn more; and I am their Layushka, and I love them, and hope we will have our get-togethers this year as well. And I wish I could teach some Yiddish to my grandchildren.
The above began with my yiddishist parents and the Peretz Shule, and I am grateful to them and to all those who contributed with boundless energy and love to the cause, the ever-continuing speaking, reading, writing, of Yiddish. I will never lose the very special, very warm feeling, the delight I see in peoples' eyes when they hear our mameh-loshn; the discovery that many well-known Israeli entertainers, singers, actors, continue to play to full houses; and oft-expressed resentment and anger which resulted in the cutting of an all-too-meager budget for the expansion of the study of
our hartzig and irreplaceable language.
Gam 'atem??
Leah Krikun