(Author: Charlie Nates, Vol 72, #1, Pesach 2017)
I was born in 1934 to parents who had left Lithuania and immigrated to Cape Town in the late 1920s. When I turned eight, we moved into our very own home in the Gardens area of the city, where I attended school. The English language presented great problems to my Yiddish-speaking parents – and to me, as it was a great embarrassment when I noticed the looks that people sometimes gave them when they spoke.
An assortment of furniture was left in our new home by the previous owners. In one corner of the sitting room stood a four-legged rosewood record playing machine. The cabinet was red in colour with inlays in its façade and stood about one metre in height.
In order to operate the machine, one needed to lift the lid on top to access the record player and also open the two doors in front in order to allow the sound to be heard. Being of pre-electric vintage, it was even by the standards of those times pretty old, and there was no power plug to be seen. It had to be hand-wound continually in order to maintain its correct speed of 78 revolutions per minute. It was also necessary to change the metal needles every so often whenever they lost their point and made the record sound even scratchier.
The records in those days were ‘78’s’ and were constructed from shellac – either 10 or 12 inches in diameter. Our particular records had the distinction of being either badly scratched or cracked – or both – which necessitated the lifting of the record player arm and shifting it to the other side of the crack.
And as fate would have it, this all became my job.
The majority of our records were discovered in a drawer of the rosewood cabinet which the previous owners had left – and as they were all Jewish records, one can draw one’s own conclusions. However, our collection was also supplemented by the careful purchasing of pre-used ones sold by a Mr. Rosen (as was advertised on his records) whose business was in District 6. These records were sans covers, and, together with our original lot, lay one on top of another to great heights and comprised of several stacks strategically placed on our oak sideboard.
Some of the more favoured records had been played so often that the f lip side could be heard coming through. Nonetheless, it appeared that either we had the finest collection of records or possessed the only record player in the neighbourhood, as visitors came often to listen to them – and I don’t have to mention that our record collection consisted only of Yiddish or Hebrew discs – the two languages I did not want to learn and was not so keen on hearing.
Cars were a luxury in those days and whenever I heard the cacophony of broken accents approaching the house on foot, I would attempt a swift disappearing act. But by then, all exits were blocked and the music lovers would descend on me, blessing me for giving up playing outside in the sunshine with my pals to be with them … “A gezunt af dayn keppale”1 they would praise me … “such a gute ingale!”2
I would then accompany them to the sitting room where overcoats, scarves, thick jerseys etc. were removed and where I would position myself to ‘work the record player.’
After much bickering and arguing and observations that “mayn klein eynikel zint’s besser”3 or “ekh mir a zinger”4, a record was finally selected. Of course, all these records were labelled in Yiddish or Hebrew and part of my duties was to find it – and quickly too … and not only to identify the record but also play the right side! And once the correct side of the correct record was playing, I was constantly instructed and reminded to “vind it kvikly” should the speed slacken.
Who were the favourite artistes in those days? If I recall correctly, they included Gershon Sirota, Moishe Oysher, Moshe Koussevitzky, Mordechai Hirshman and P. Pinchuk. I am not sure now whether Max Perlman, Chayale Rosenthal and Molly Picon were being played then or later, but the favoured discs were “Kol Nidrei”, “Eli Eli” and “Rosinkes Mit Mandelen” (which, although I would not actually admit to it at the time, I really liked).
Depending from where one hailed – be it Lithuania, Poland, Russia, Latvia or Germany – so did the accents vary – and the immigrants from the different countries did not always get along. In fact, they were more often than not, extremely critical and jealous of one another.
I could not help noting the comments after one or another of the party departed: “Stuck up Yekke” … “dumb Pollak” …. ‘stupid Litvak’ … “From good music dey know from nothing — und der eccents!”
Some truly strange characters graced our musical interludes. There was one old aunt who always wore the same hat which boasted a feather on top of it. She unfortunately had a bad case of ‘the shakes’ and the feather on her hat trembled faster and faster in time to the music as it sped up. Alongside her was her ‘shwester’ who doused herself in bottles of eau de cologne. Always seated in the far corner was an aunt who would draw me into her arms and kiss the top of my head whenever I was near. Another old lady across from her was forever showing off photographs of her grandchildren. She would even accost strangers in the street to let them have a look-see.
There was an elderly uncle with a very long nose – but unfortunately no nose for music; and another uncle who would await a loud passage of music to hawk into a handkerchief. (He knew his music!) … Best of all, was my uncle Gershon, who always slipped me a penny – now there was a gentleman!
I almost neglected to mention the one who always toted what looked like a toilet seat with him – except that it was made of rubber and when he sat on it ever so slowly, he would close his eyes and whisper “oy vey”. And whenever we left our music room, the general comment was “ot gayt Kalman der killer!!” Bela Lugosi, Boris Karlof, Frankenstein – they were killers; but uncle Kalman?! Never! Surely a killer would carry a gun or a knife. But a toilet seat? Never!!
Only years later did I learn that the word ‘killer’ – ‘killa’ in Yiddish – actually meant ‘ hernia’.
I also realise now that the majority of aunts and uncles were not, in fact, related to me.
In those days, women did not smoke – but the men more than made up for them. Russian tea was taken by all, sugar cubes placed in mouth, the cup and saucer balanced on the knee. The men, however, had an ashtray on the other. The cheapest and most popular cigarette brand of the day was Cavalla in the green packet. In order for people to breathe as well, the windows were always wide open – thus were our non-Jewish friends also treated to the music.
Later, the men would retire to another room where a serious game of ‘korten’ (either solo or klabberjas) would commence. Because they played for money, tempers sometimes wore thin and profanities uttered: “in drerd mayn gelt”5 or “ihh hob drekishe korten vayter!”6A really big loser could total five shillings in an evening – and his wife would half murder him when he got home!
About 15 years later, my dear father having passed away earlier, his sisters and brother whom I had never met visited us from Argentina. They spoke only Spanish and Yiddish and I stood there feeling at a loss at being unable to communicate with my own flesh and blood. And then suddenly, without warning, the very language which I had denied and of which I had felt ashamed when I was much younger, came forth from only knows where, and I was able to make myself understood by speaking Yiddish!
… And as I spoke it, I found myself crying.
I could not fathom what had come over me at that time, but several decades later, after my dear mother and all those marvellous ‘uncles ‘ and ‘aunties’ had passed away, did I fully realise just how much I missed them all – and the music that they loved. Nor, at that time, did I appreciate that these wonderful ‘larger than life’ people had come to a new country with no money, no language, no nothing. Yet had singlehandedly built up a life for themselves and their families despite untold hardships.
It was George Bernard Shaw who claimed that ‘youth was wasted on the young’.
Whenever the yorzeit of my parents comes around and I recite the kaddish, I remember them sitting amidst their chaverim gathered around the old record player, sharing their wonderfully expressive common tongue and savouring the music that emanated from the marvellous 78 records which gave them so much joy ….
I can still see them. I still hear them – the lyrics of their language; the lilt of their accents; the lift of their laughter. I am so grateful that through their music I was able to experience their humanity, tenacity and camaraderie – and feel the rhythm of the resilience of their lives. They afforded me a slice of life that I would not otherwise have encountered – as well as the sense of being and the understanding it has given to my life.
… They say what goes around comes around; and now after all these years, records which were known as 78s in those days, are back in fashion. They are of great value and very much in demand – as are the old fashioned record- players (the machine – not me!)
Finally, as I look back, I hope that our long-gone rosewood record-player resides in a home alongside equally superb antiques – perhaps in another good Jewish home – and is appreciated as much as I remember it today – maybe even with the records.
Charlie Natesh as an affinity for music and nature. His lifelong hobbies include painting, sculpture and writing
NOTES
- Lit. ‘Health on your little head’ (‘well done’)
- ‘Good little boy’
- ‘My little grandchild sings it better’
- ‘Not much of a singer’
- ‘My money down the drain’
- ‘Once again terrible cards’
Published by the Israel Council on Foreign Relations
www.israeljfa.com
