Koved
When I was nine years old, my best friend was Ann Hiatt. My fully WASP family scored a ten on neuroses and boasted an appalling lack of colour and nuance and stories to tell; forbidden to argue, nay, disagree, cuss or raise voices… so staying the weekend at the Hiatts’ was my favourite thrill of all.
A broch, abei gezunt, baheimah, bubkes, bubeleh, eilt zich, mensch, I should know as little about trouble, matzo balls, gifilteh fish, kreplach, lox and nash. When Ann came to my house, she’d gobble raw bacon, giggling and guilty.
Her dad took us to trade shows, letting us run amuck, stealing stickers and samples while he did business and, for some odd reason, we’d spend hours acting out fights from The Taming of the Shrew, and laughing our faces off. (Let’s not analyze that.)
Shlecht, shlep, shlok, shlub, shlump, toches, traif, this you call a living?
I’d listen enthralled to the music pattering out of their mouths, awed and jealous of the lyrics and frankness, uxorious bobbeh and zaideh. I’d beg them to translate every word and whisper them in the dark in the bed next to Ann.
Kitsel, loi alaichem, neshomeleh, oi, gevald, opgeflikt, mir velen bentshen.
And when her mom drove me home on Sunday afternoons, she’d always lean over to kiss me goodbye, saying, ‘Mind you don’t let them know what you know; they’ll never let you come back to us.’
Meshugeh.
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