The Tongue Set Free Read online

  Of the fairy tales I heard, only the ones about werewolves and vampires have lodged in my memory. Perhaps no other kinds were told. I can’t pick up a book of Balkan fairy tales without instantly recognizing some of them. Every detail of them is present to my mind, but not in the language I heard them in. I heard them in Bulgarian, but I know them in German; this mysterious translation is perhaps the oddest thing that I have to tell about my youth, and since the language history of mosthchildren runs differently, perhaps I ought to say more about it.

  To each other, my parents spoke German, which I was not allowed to understand. To us children and to all relatives and friends, they spoke Ladino. That was the true vernacular, albeit an ancient Spanish, I often heard it later on and I’ve never forgotten it. The peasant girls at home knew only Bulgarian, and I must have learned it with them. But since I never went to a Bulgarian school, leaving Ruschuk at six years of age, I very soon forgot Bulgarian completely. All events of those first few years were in Ladino or Bulgarian. It wasn’t until much later that most of them were rendered into German within me. Only especially dramatic events, murder and manslaughter so to speak, and the worst terrors have been retained by me in their Ladino wording, and very precisely and indestructibly at that. Everything else, that is, most things, and especially anything Bulgarian, like the fairy tales, I carry around in German.

  I cannot say exactly how this happened. I don’t know at what point in time, on what occasion, this or that translated itself. I never probed into the matter; perhaps I was afraid to destroy my most precious memories with a methodical examination based on rigorous principles. I can say only one thing with certainty: The events of those years are present to my mind in all their strength and freshness (I’ve fed on them for over sixty years), but the vast majority are tied to words that I did not know at that time. It seems natural to me to write them down now; I don’t have the feeling that I am changing or warping anything. It is not like the literary translation of a book from one languagz to another, it is a translation that happened of its own accord in my unconscious, and since I ordinarily avoid this word like the plague, a word that has become meaningless from overuse, I apologize for employing it in this one and only case.

  The Armenian’s Ax The Gypsies

  The delight in topographical drawing, which Stendhal so deftly indulges in throughout his Henri Brulard, is beyond me, and, to my sorrow, I was always a poor draftsman. So I have to describe the layout of the residential buildings around our courtyard garden in Ruschuk.

  When you stepped through the large gate from the street into the courtyard, Grandfather Canetti’s house stood immediately to the right. It looked statelier than the other houses, it was also higher. But I can’t say whether it had an upper floor in contrast to the other single-story houses. It appeared taller in any event because there were more steps leading up to it. It was also brighter than the other houses, it may have been painted a light color.

  Opposite, to the left of the courtyard gate, stood the house where my father’s eldest sister, Aunt Sophie, lived with her husband, Uncle Nathan. His family name was Eliakim, a name I never cared for; perhaps it disturbed me because it didn’t sound Spanish like all the other names. They had three children, Régine, Jacques, and Laurica. This last child, the youngest, was four years older than I, an age difference that played a baleful part.

  Next to this house, in the same line, also on the left side of the courtyard, stood our house, which looked just like my uncle’s. A few steps ran up to the two houses, ending in a porch the width of both together.

  The garden courtyard between these three houses was very large; the draw well for water stood facing us, not in the center, but a little off to the side. It didn’t yield enough, and most of the water came in gigantic barrels that were drawn by mules from the Danube. The Danube water couldn’t be used without first being boiled, and it stood then in huge caldrons, cooling off on the porch in front of the house.

  Behind the draw well and separated from the courtyard by a hedge, there was the orchard. It wasn’t especially attractive, it was too regular, and perhaps not old enough; my mother’s relatives had far more beautiful orchards.

  It was through the narrow side of our house that you came in from the large courtyard. The house then stretched out far into the back, and even though it had only that one floor, it is very spacious in my memory. On the further side of the courtyard, you could walk all the way around the house, past the long side, and then enter a smaller yard, into which the kitchen opened. Here there was wood to be chopped, geese and chickens scurried about, there was always a hustle and bustle in the kitchen, the cook carried things out or in, and the half dozen little girls jumped about and were busy.

  In this kitchen yard, there was often a servant chopping wood, and the one I remember best was my friend, the sad Armenian. While chopping, he sang songs, which I couldn’t understand, but which tore my heart. When I asked my mother why he was so sad, she said bad people had wanted to kill all the Armenians in Istanbul, and he had lost his entire family. He had watched from a hiding place when they had killed his sister. Then he had fled to Bulgaria, and my father had felt sorry for him and taken him into the house. When he chopped wood now, he always had to think of his little sister, and that was why he sang those sad songs.

  I developed a deep love for him. Whenever he chopped wood, I stood up on the divan at the end of the long living room, by the window facing the kitchen yard. Then I leaned out the window to watch him, and when he sang, I thought of his sister—and then I would always wish for a little sister myself. He had a long black mustache and pitch-black hair, and he seemed very huge, perhaps because I saw him when he lifted his arm up high with the ax. I loved him even more than the store employee Chelebon, whom I saw very infrequently after all. The Armenian and I exchanged a few words, but very few, and I don’t know what the language was. But he waited for me before he started chopping. The instant he saw me, he smiled slightly and raised the ax, and it was terrible to watch his rage as he smashed into the wood. He became gloomy then and sang his songs. When he put the ax down, he smiled at me again, and I waited for his smile just as he waited for me, he, the first refugee in my life.

  * * *

  Every Friday, the Gypsies came. On Friday, the Jewish homes prepared everything for the Sabbath. The house was cleaned from top to bottom, the Bulgarian girls scooted all over the place, the kitchen hummed with activity, no one had time for me. I was all alone and waiting for the Gypsies, my face pressed against the garden window of the gigantic living room. I lived in panic fear of them. I assume it was the girls who also told me about Gypsies during the long evenings in the darkness. I thought about their stealing children and was convinced that they were after me.

  But despite my fear, I wouldn’t have missed seeing them; it was a splendid sight they offered. The courtyard gate had been opened wide for them, for they needed space. They came like an entire tribe: in the middle, tall and erect, a blind patriarch, the great-grandfather, as I was told, a handsome, white-haired old man; he walked very slowly, leaning on two grown granddaughters right and left and wearing colorful rags. Around him, thronging densely, there were Gypsies of all ages, very few men, almost nothing but women, and countless children, the infants in their mother’s arms; the rest sprang about, but never moved very far from the proud old man, who always remained the center. The whole procession had something strangely dense about it, I never otherwise saw so many people huddling so close together as they moved along; and in this very colorful city, they were the most colorful sight. The rags they had pieced together for their clothing shone in all colors, but the one that stood out sharpest was red. Sacks dangled from many of the shoulders, and I couldn’t look at those sacks without imagining that they contained stolen children.

  The Gypsies struck me as something without number, yet when I now try to estimate their number in my image of them, I would think that they were no more than thirty or forty. But still, I had never see
n so many people in the big courtyard, and since they moved so slowly because of the old man, they seemed to fill the courtyard endlessly. They didn’t stay there, however, they moved around the house and into the smaller courtyard by the kitchen, where the wood also lay in stacks, and that was where they settled.

  I used to wait for the moment when they first appeared at the entrance gate, and no sooner had I spotted the blind old man than I dashed, yelling “Zinganas! Zinganas!” through the long living room and the even longer corridor that connected the living room with the kitchen in back. My mother stood there, giving instructions for the Sabbath dishes; certain special delicacies she prepared herself. I ignored the little girls, whom I often met on the way; I kept yelling and yelling, until I stood next to my mother, who said something calming to me. But instead of remaining with her, I ran the whole long way back, glanced through the window at the progress of the Gypsies, who were a bit further by now, and then I promptly reported on them in the kitchen again. I wanted to see them, I was obsessed with them, but the instant I saw them I was again seized with fear that they were after me, and I ran away screaming. For a whole while, I kept dashing back and forth like that, and that’s why, I believe, I retained such an intense feeling for the wide range of the house between the two courtyards.

  As soon as they had all arrived at their destination by the kitchen, the old man settled down, the others grouped around him, the sacks opened, and the women accepted all the gifts without fighting for them. They got big pieces of wood from the pile, they seemed particularly keen on them; they got many foods. They got something of everything that was already prepared, by no means were leftovers fobbed off on them. I was relieved when I saw that they had no children in the sacks, and under my mother’s protection I walked among them, studying them carefully buthmaking sure I didn’t get too close to the women, who wanted to caress me. The blind old man ate slowly from a bowl, resting and taking his time. The others didn’t touch any of the food stuffs, everything vanished in the big sacks and only the children were allowed to nibble on the sweet things they had been given. I was amazed at how friendly they were to their children, not at all like nasty child-snatchers. But that changed nothing in my terror of them. After what seemed like a very long while, they started off again, the procession moved somewhat faster than upon entering; it went around the house and through the courtyard. I watched them from the same window as they vanished through the gate. Then I ran to the kitchen one last time to announce: “The Gypsies are gone!” Our servant took me by the hand, led me to the gate, and locked it up, saying: “Now they won’t come back.” The courtyard gate normally stayed open in the daytime, but on Fridays it was locked, so that any further group of Gypsies coming along afterwards would know their people had been here already and would move on.

  My Brother’s Birth

  At a very early time, when I was still in a highchair, the floor seemed very far away, and I was scared of falling out. Uncle Bucco, my father’s eldest brother, visited us, picked me up, and placed me on the floor. Then he made a solemn face, put his palm on my head, and spoke: “Yo ti bendigo, Eliachicu, Amen!” (I bless thee, little Elias, Amen!) He said it very emphatically, I liked the solemn tone; I believe I felt bigger when he blessed me. But he was a joker and laughed too soon; I sensed he was making fun of me, and the great moment of benediction, which I was always taken in by, ended in embarrassment.

  This uncle endlessly repeated everything he did. He taught me lots of ditties, never resting until I could sing them myself. When he came again, he asked about them, patiently training me to perform for the adults. I would wait for his blessing, even though he always promptly destroyed it, and had he been more restrained, he would have been my favorite uncle. He lived in Varna, where he managed a branch of Grandfather’s business, and he came to Ruschuk for the holidays and special occasions. The family spoke respectfully about him because he was the Bucco, which was the honorary title for the firstborn son in a family. I learned early on how important it was to be a firstborn son, and had I remained in Ruschuk, I would also have become a Bucco.

  For four years, I remained the only child, and all that time, I wore little dresses like a girl. I wanted to wear trousers like a boy, and was always put off until later. Then my brother Nissim was born, and on this occasion I was allowed to wear my first pants. Everything that happened then I experienced in my trousers with great pride, and that is why I have retained every detail.

  There were lots of people in the house, and I saw anxious faces. I was not allowed to go to my mother in the bedroom, where my crib was too; I wandered around by the door, to catch a glimpse of her whenever someone went in. But they always shut the door so quickly that I never laid eyes on her. I heard a wailing voice, which I didn’t recognize, and when I asked who that was, I was told: “Go away!” I had never seen the grownups so anxious, and no one paid any attention to me, which I wasn’t used to. (As I found out later, it was a long and hard labor, and they feared for my mother’s life.) Dr. Menakhemoff was there, the physician with the long, black beard, and he too—who was otherwise so friendly and had me sing little ditties, for which he praised me—he neither looked at me nor spoke to me, and glared when I wouldn’t go away from the door. The wailing grew louder, I heard “Madre mia querida! Madre mia querida!” I pressed my head against the door; when it opened, the moaning was so loud that I was horror-stricken. Suddenly I realized it came from my mother, and it was so eerie that I didn’t want to see her anymore.

  Finally, I was allowed into the bedroom, everyone was smiling, my father was laughing, and they showed me a little brother. Mother lay white and motionless in bed. Dr. Menakhemoff said: “She needs rest!” But the place wasn’t at all restful. Strange women were going about the room; now I was there again for everyone, I was cheered up, and Grandmother Arditti, who seldom came into the house, said: “She’s better.” Mother said nothing. I was afraid of her and ran out and didn’t hang around the door either. For a long while after that, my mother was alien to me, and it took months for me to regain confidence in her.

  The next thing I can see is the Feast of Circumcision. Many more people came into the house. I was allowed to watch during the circumcision. I have the impression that they deliberately let me look. All doors were open, even the house door, a long covered table for the guests stood in the living room, and in another room, facing the bedroom, the circumcision took place. It was witnessed only by men, all standing. My tiny brother was held over a basin, I saw the knife, and particularly I saw a lot of blood dripping into the basin.

  My brother was named after my mother’s father, Nissim, and they explained that I was the eldest and was therefore named after my paternal grandfather. The position of the eldest son was so greatly emphasized that I remained conscious of it from that moment of the circumcision on and never lost my pride in it.

  People then made merry at the table; I paraded around in my pants. I didn’t rest until each of the guests had noticed them, and when new visitors came, I ran to greet them at the door and remained expectantly in front of them. There was a lot of coming and going; when everyone was there, they still missed Cousin Jacques from the neighboring house. “He’s gone off on his bicycle,” somebody said, and his behavior was disapproved of. After the meal, he arrived, covered with dust. I saw him jumping off the bicycle in front of the house; he was eight years older than I and wore the uniform of a Gymnasium student. He explained about the glorious new thing, he had only just been given the bicycle. Then he tried to sneak inconspicuously into the party, but I blurted out that I wanted a bike too. Aunt Sophie, his mother, swooped upon him and hauled him over the coals. He threatened me with his finger and vanished again.

  On that day, I also realized that one has to keep one’s mouth closed when eating. Régine, the sister of the bicycle owner, put nuts into her mouth, I stood before her spellbound, watching her chew with her mouth closed. It took a long time, and when she was done, she declared that I would have to eat li
ke that too, otherwise they would stick me back into skirts. I must have learned fast, for I would not give up my trousers for anything in the world.

  The Turk’s House The Two Grandfathers

  Sometimes, when Grandfather Canetti was in the store, I was taken over to his house to pay respects to my grandmother. She sat on the Turkish divan, smoking and drinking strong coffee. She always stayed home, she never went out; I can’t recall ever seeing her outside the house. Her name was Laura and, like Grandfather, she came from Adrianople. He called her “Oro,” which actually means “gold,” I never understood her name. Of all the relatives, she was the one that remained most Turkish. She never got up from her divan, I don’t even know how she ever got there, for I never saw her walking, and she would sigh from time to time and drink another cup of coffee and smoke. She would greet me with a lamenting tone and, having said nothing to me, she let me go, lamenting. She had a few wailing sentences for whoever brought me. Perhaps she thought she was ill, perhaps she really was, but she was certainly lazy in an Oriental way, and she must have suffered under Grandfather, who was fiendishly lively.

  Wherever he appeared, he was always instantly the center, which I didn’t realize at the time; he was feared in his family, a tyrant who could weep hot tears if he wanted to. He felt most comfortable with his grandsons, who bore his name. Among friends and acquaintances, indeed throughout the Sephardic community, he was popular for his beautiful voice, which women particularly succumbed to. Whenever he was invited anywhere, he never took Grandmother along; he couldn’t stand her stupidity and her continuous wailing. He was instantly surrounded by a big circle of people, told stories in which he played many parts, and on special occasions, he yielded to entreaties to sing.