My grandfather thought the language
that tied him to the "old country"
was the vernacular of his oppression.
Our youthful tongues
accepted the offered English eagerly
without thinking to inquire about traditional speech.
Later I longed to be inside the mystery
of that language but it was not allowed.
Except for a few afternoons of coffee,
rye bread and secret lessons.
A few phrases were all I learned,
" How are you?" "I am fine!"
and a little song are all I remember.
His culture, translucent as smoke,
vanished over two generations
disappeared into the fire of assimilation
leaving its empty echoes in the back of my throat.
-Maralee Gerke
Oregon, USA
