The Sunday Memory Drawer - My German Heritage

I wish I could tell you more about it.  My German heritage, that is.  You do read the titles of these blog pieces, right? 

Sadly, the recurring theme throughout these Sunday Memory Drawers is how my parents and grandparents didn't necessarily share a lot of information.  And this now extends to my paternal roots which were based somewhere in the country mapped above.  Somebody recently asked me if I ever thought about tracing my ancestry and going back to where my grandparents started their lives.  I had to respond with regret.

I wouldn't know where the hell to start.

There were tidbits of information over the years but nothing to really write a book about.  As near as I can piece it together, my paternal grandfather and grandmother migrated to America somewhere around 1910.  I assume they came on a boat, because they used to say that they were "off the boat."  Is that just another use of the slang expression?  Probably not.  I can't think of another way they could have gotten here.

I think they were married before they came to America and were likely accompanied on the trip by a bunch of other relatives.  Of course, they were all looking for a better life.  Who wasn't?

Grandma used to tell me that she grew up on a farmland in Germany.  The dialect she spoke was called "plattdeutsch."  My research shows me this was a common variation of the language and primarily found in the northern regions of the country.  Where precisely?  No clue.

Now, all these folks landed smack in the middle of the Bronx.  A two mile radius around White Plains Road and 225th Street.  The centerpiece of their lives?  The Lutheran church they helped to build on 219th Street.  It's still there, but I am guessing the primary language spoken at St. Peter's is now Spanish.  But, the German inscription still rests on top of the front door.

Translated, I think it means "God is here."  So, essentially, my family had carried over their German farming village landscape to the Bronx.  In Europe, church is a central spot in any village.  So, too, would it be in the new world, even if said village was the Bronx.

I heard German spoken all the years I was growing up.  My father never did speak it, but I always got the impression that he understood it.  When he would listen to the Saturday night polka party on the radio while eating his Saturday night kielbasie, Dad seemed to understand what was being said.  I sure didn't.

Downstairs, Grandma and Grandpa talked to each other in German all the time.  I could pick up a word here or there, but basically waited to hear somebody's name interpersed throughout.  That would be the key to me about who in the family they were gossiping about. 

When their friends would come over for weekend night Pinochile parties, the kitchen downstairs would sound like a Munich beer hall.  I'd listen at the foot of the hallway stairs, clamoring to hear anything that remotely sounded interesting.  I was captivated by their conversations, even though I didn't comprehend a single word.  I was that desperate for information that never ultimately came.

There were two words that I eventually came to understand, mainly because they were always directed at me by Grandma.

Slobberhans. 

I don't know what it means, but I sure sounds like me.  I got this description if I was particularly messy.

Lopchook. 

Yeah, that was occasionally me as well.   I think it translates to "schlump" or "schlmiel."  An oaf.  Were they real words or conjured up by my grandmother?  As always....

No clue.

I've written here before about my grandmother's sister-in-law.  When they were both widows, they tended to cling to each other as the number of folks around who spoke German dwindled.  These two could go on for hours with dialogue that was completely alien to me.

Now,  Tante Emma and Grandma had a pretty set routine. On Sunday afternoon, after Grandma's dinner dishes had been cleared, the front door bell would ring. Our dog would bark. We would look at the clock. It was exactly 1PM. This could only mean one thing.

Tante Emma had come to call.

Back in the day this is what people did. They went to visit each other on Sunday afternoons. And the opening dialogue between the two would always be the same. Like Abbott and Costello's "Who's On First?" routine, the lines were repeated.  Always in English, thank goodness.

"How are you feeling?"

"With my fingers."

Or...

"What's new with you?"

"New York and New Jersey."

Or...

"You still kicking?"

"Yeah, bend over. I'll show you."

There were weeks where Tante Emma got the punchline and other weeks where Grandma got to button the joke. But, the lines never varied.

As soon as the opening routine was concluded, they would be off to the races with the German language.  And I'd be lost all over again.

So, just how German did we eat?  Not much.  You would think our home would have been filled with the succulent aromas of wienerschnitzel and sauerbraten cooking on the stove.  Er, no.  I don't remember either dish showing up on our dinner tables. 

There was one concoction, however, that did make regular appearances.  I think my grandmother called it "creasel."  Weasel with a "k" sound. If I recall correctly, it was really fried globs of some sort of dough, mixed up with bacon and onions.  Horrible for your arteries, but it tasted so good.  I have tried to find out more about this dish and I asked the German woman who runs a sausage store here in Los Angeles.

"Creasel?  Never heard of it."

I was not surprised.  She did say people in the farm country of Germany used to make up their own meals depending upon what they had on hand.  All a function of being poor.

Got it.

The only other German food connnection in our home was my father's weekly Saturday sojourn to Klemm's Pork Store in the Bronx.  We were loaded up with cold cuts and nitrates for the week.  But, most of the meats were really not German in heritage.  The one exception was a favorite of mine.  Cervelat salami.

Along with my beloved Taylor Ham, I would bring this on sandwichs to school.  Sitting in the cafeteria, I'd be gleefully munching on my lunch and somebody would ask me what I was eating.  I'd reply "cervelat."

"Huh?"

Excuse me, but not every cold cut is made in Chicago by Oscar Mayer.  The great thing is that the aforementioned Los Angeles sausage store sells it and I usually grab a half-pound of the salami once a month.

I've often wondered about the emotions of my grandparents during World War II.  We were at war with the country they came from.  How conflicted could they have been?  To make matters worse, they had all four sons in military uniform.  One didn't make it back from the war front.  That had to be complicated for the family.

Of course, they never really said.

There was one afternoon many years later where I did get a glimpse behind that psychological curtain.  During one of those rainy Sunday afternoons in front of the television.  Grandma and I were watching the classic "Mrs. Miniver" starring Greer Garson.

In the film, there's a scene where Mrs. Miniver shows compassion for a young German soldier lost in the wilds of London after his bomber plane crashes.    He was portrayed as a fanatic.  Ultimately, he is disarmed by Mrs. Miniver and brought to the police.

My grandmother begged to differ.

"Not all those boys were like that."

She was so incensed that she got up from her chair and turned off the television, mid-movie.

Okay, I see.  There is still a little pride in the homeland.  As it should be.

And I felt that in an even more pronounced way on one excursion with my grandparents to Woolworth's on Fourth Avenue in Mount Vernon, New York.  I've told the tale before, but it warrants repeating here.

I was young and in tow as my grandparents were picking up some odds and ends at the beloved "five and ten," where you really couldn't buy anything for a nickel and a dime.  Grandma and Grandpa were going up and down the aisles and, as was their routine, yakking to each other in German.

I decided to join in.

"Ich ich ich ich guten ich ich ich."

I started to mimic their conversation as if I were a part of it.  Speaking in my completely made-up-seven-year-old version of German.

"Garble, mutter, mutter, garble, ich, mumble, garble, ich, mumble."

I probably sounded like Adolf Hitler in his crib.

My grandmother asked me once to stop it. I was a kid and had to adhere to the strict rules governing my age group. I didn't listen.

"Garble, mutter, mutter, ich, garble, garble, ich, mutter, mutter." On and on and on and on.

Somewhere around Toiletries, she had enough. To this day, when somebody uses the expression "hauled off and slapped," I remember my grandmother.

CRACK!

I didn't cry. The shock of it all just numbed me. I didn't say another word the rest of the day. In any language whatsoever. Just thinking about it all again makes me rub my cheek. It still feels warm.

Yep, my grandparents took their heritage very seriously.

Dinner last night:  Sausage and peppers at Carlo's in Yonkers.