The generation that wasn't.

My father came to this country at the age of eight.
By boat, with his parents and seven  siblings.
The year was 1928.

So they made it out before the Holocaust; those of the family who remained behind did not.

It will come as no surprise that we did not speak Hungarian at home.
First of all there was mom, who was Austrian on both her father  and mother's side.
And then there was that particular gestalt of that generation. The hiding of one's identity, or at the very least, not making a big deal out of it.

Except, of course, for the food. But that's another story, and a recipe for cholent will make its way to these pages, and then you will be in for a treat. If you do not know what cholent is, don't worry.

The siblings would speak Hungarian from time to time. Sometimes just a word or expression or two. I don't remember lengthy conversations. Actually, I don't remember lengthy conversations in English, either.

One year, in college, I went to the New Brunswick public library to get a French book.
F,G,H. Hungarian was close by. I got a book for myself in French, and one in Hungarian for my father. I was excited, he less so. I don't think he was able to read it, but it was the thought that counted.
I'm just not so sure I knew what that thought was.
I returned the book soon after.


I don't drive, and use either my feet or the bus system here in Minneapolis to make my way around.
The immigrants I am surrounded by are usually Somali or Hispanic. There are also Hmong and a smattering of other ethnicities. One of my greatest pleasures is to listen to the languages being spoken. And then watching the young kids translating for their elders, or switching to English as they say 'Thank you" to the driver as they leave the bus.

I did nothing like that growing up.
No need to.
No native language to speak.
No need to translate.
And my parents never rode the bus.

What did that generation think?

I don't know.
They never talked about it.