Yiddish was our language – my Mother and mine. It was the only common language Jews spoke to each other throughout Europe. There were two dialectics – Litvak and Glitzeaner. Mom spoke one, I spoke the other. As was always the case, she wanted me to speak her dialect and I spoke the other one, just because.

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I had two names – Sarinou and Saralle (sweet Sara and little Sara). My mother and I spoke only in Yiddish to each other. For me it was always on automatic pilot. No thought process was involved. When I heard her voice my brain responded in Yiddish. Although German was my first language, Yiddish somehow evolved in the refugee camp when I wanted to know what all the grown-ups were whispering about.

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My mother died in February of 2006. This conversation took place at her bedside several days before her death.

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Mom: "Raialle, (her sister in Israel) dost a bissalle perfume?" (Raia, do you have some perfume?)

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Me: "Vart a minute, eech ob a bisalle perfume in the car?" (Wait a minute, I have a little perfume in the car.) "Mom, dee vilst perfume?" (Mom, do you want some perfume?)

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Mom: "Nu, spritz meech oon. And lipstick, dee ost a bisalle lipstick?" (Of course, spray me on. And lipstick, do have a little lipstick?)

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I put lipstick on her - a beautiful bronze color. Kissed her forehead, kissed her eyes, kissed her face. She held her face up, the way a baby holds its face up when your rub lotion on. She looked a little brighter. She inhaled the attention and breathed a little easier.

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Mom: "The government owes me a lot of money. And when they pay me, Saralle, we're going into business. You know 86 is not too old to go into business, is it? Dee ost g'zain dain tatte?" (Have you seen your Father? He'd been dead since August 2005 and they had been divorced since 1976. We hadn’t told her he had died.)

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Me: "Eech ob im g'zain." (I saw him.)

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Mom: "Git, sz’nisht git ts’zain broyges.” (Good, it’s not good to remain angry.) "Sarinou, eech gay shtarbin?" (Sara, am I going to die?)

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Me: “Mom, you want to die?” (I am completely taken off guard, for how are you ever prepared to lose your parents?)

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Mom: "Lobin zeech klapen dem kop in deir vant!" (Let them knock their heads into a wall!)

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My knees almost gave out, while I’m trying not to laugh hysterically. I sat down next to her bed, my brain racing. Her body is shot. She can lift her right arm and her head a little bit, and she can talk, boy, can she talk. I had a good teacher. Here she is with her body broken, though her spirit, her heart and soul are telling the angel of death to go knock his head into a wall and come and get her if he dares.

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I guess if you can escape the wrath of Hitler, be homeless for seven years beginning at nineteen, bury your parents and your first born and leave your sisters behind in Uzbekistan - all before your 25th birthday - travel thousands of miles to Munich, survive a refugee camp with rations of peanut butter, margarine, and white bread, travel by ship three months to America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, and all before your 30th birthday, what's a little dying?

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*This was written from Yiddish translated notes at her bedside 26 Jan 06 in Scottsdale, AZ when she was in the hospice. Nusha died a week later.

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Thanks for reading JWorld Café, the Poetica Magazine Blog

Sara Fryd, Guest Blogger

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Sara Fryd is the author of the book, You Meet No Strangers, a collection of 24 stories about growing up an American daughter in an Eastern European family. It is available in paperback at Amazon, https://www.createspace.com/3564631" target="_blank">Createspace, and in electronic digital format for Kindle and Smashword. She also writes the blog Sara Arizona, with visitors from 180 countries. – Linda Pressman, Blog Editor