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Jewish World Review Oct. 15, 2007 / 3 Mar-Cheshvan 5768 Relatively Speaking By Malky Feig
Some terms defy translation — but not first-hand experiences
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
I first heard the Yiddish term landsleit from my grandmother, and
though I've long forgotten in what context the word came
up, I do remember the flush of nostalgia it evoked.
"Ah, landsleit," she sighed with fond yearning, and though I knew
enough to understand that the word meant "fellow townspeople,"
I failed to grasp the emotional significance of the term.
I had always had a soft spot for old friends, for classmates
and neighbors of years gone by. There is a certain sense of
acceptance, of familiarity and mutual understanding that lends
these deeply rooted relationships special appeal, even after
years of being unused. There is something comfortable and
comforting about being called by your childhood nickname,
about reminiscing with someone who remembers your mother's
mandelbroit (cookies), or your older brother's run-in with his math
teacher.
People who are considered landsleit, however, simply by virtue of them sharing the zip code of one's youth, never
tugged at my sentiment. Never — at least not until that fateful day in
Charles de' Gaulle Airport.
It's been quite a few years, but I can still remember the
helpless feeling of traveling alone, saddled with a bundled
newborn and a bulging handbag, sandwiched between a crowd
of passengers trying to deplane for a stopover in Paris.
I remember milling about the orange couches snaking
around the airport lounging area, floating amidst an indecipherable
muddle of foreign languages. There was no dearth
of people, of course.
But shuffling along with my handbag between my feet and baby in the crook of my arm, I felt so markedly alone. I scanned the jostling crowds for somebody who I could relate to.
Nobody was in sight. I tried to silence my growing
sense of disquiet, and searched for an unobtrusive corner
where I could block out the hullabaloo and recite some
Tehillim, Psalms. Just as I was about settled into my pose, the baby
began to fuss.
"Oh no!" I groaned and then glanced at my watch. Where
was I going to procure hot water for her bottle?
I got up and headed for the cafe area, as the baby's cries
began growing steadily more persistent against the fading backdrop
of announcements in lilting French, followed by stilted
English.
At the counter, a courteous waiter pumped green slush
into a tall paper cup for the young man ahead of me. I tried to formulate in French my request for hot water. I don't
know when it happened — preoccupied as I was, patting the baby
and thinking of how to approach the bartender — but suddenly I
sensed an eerie silence behind me.
Turning around instinctively,
I noticed with alarm that all my fellow passengers had left
the lounging area. They were now in either one of two lines.
First a rush of panic and then a sensation of feeling
utterly abandoned overcame me.
Had I missed a crucial announcement? The
subdued hum suddenly presiding over the hustling hall of a
minute ago made me feel like the last underwater straggler
emerging from the pool — dripping and startled, bewildered by
the sudden stillness of the water and the hush following the
lifeguard's whistle. Was it now time for departure?
The lines were moving forward at a constant pace. I felt my
temples throbbing. Should I wait for the hot water, or was it
imperative that I get on line immediately? I couldn't think. In
my arms, the baby was flailing her little fists and shrieking; in
the background that unnerving silence continued.
In the desperation of
the moment, I asked the man behind the counter if he could
help me. He shrugged indifferently.
And then suddenly I spotted her at the far end of the line.
An unmistakably Orthodox woman — middle aged, scanning the fluorescent
green letters on the digital display.
Landsleit.
I had never before experienced such an overwhelming
gush of relief at the sight of an absolute stranger.
Heaving my handbag over my shoulder, I all but skidded down
the length of the hall to the line to where the woman stood.
Dropping my natural inhibition, I blurted out my predicament
without preamble, and asked the woman if she thought I
had time to procure some hot water.
"This isn't departure yet," she reassured me in English,
"Just some preliminary form to fill out. Give me the baby. You
go make the bottle and I'll keep your place."
A surge of warmth coursed through me. I felt the tingling
joy of recovering my senses after the numbness of emotional
frostbite. My panic dissolved. My aloneness dissipated.
I suddenly felt firmly anchored in this unfamiliar island. There
was someone I knew, someone I could cling to and depend on —
landsleit.
Later on, and many times since, I've had occasion to ponder
that strange relationship of a few hours — the transience of it
and the intensity of it. Studying my newfound companion, it
struck me that my chances of my pairing up with her under any
other circumstances were close to nil.
If attire reveals anything about an individual, then our
places in society were miles apart, and so were our personal ideas of
tasteful apparel. She was at least double my age, and our ensuing
bits of conversation revealed that neither her background,
nor her family setup, nor her profession, would have ever
fused any bonds between us.
And yet, on that alien soil, we were drawn to each other like
natural soulmates.
Against the bold contrast of those stridently
foreign surroundings, the two of us represented the same goal,
hailed from one source, respected identical ideals. I didn't
flinch for a shadow of a second before entrusting her with my most precious possession and my personal belongings.
And she didn't hesitate a
moment before offering to watch them.
It was the combination, I suppose, of having no one else to
fall back on, and of feeling so vulnerable and helpless, that lent
our alliance that sense of kinship, stronger than any I've ever
felt with an ordinary friend on just any day.
Landsleit.
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Malky Feig is a columnist for Yated Ne'eman. To comment, please click here.
© 2007, Yated Ne'eman
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