Memories of Laughter & Garlic:
Jewish Wit, Wisdom and Humor
To Warm Your Heart

by Leo Lieberman
12.95, Cover: Paperback, ISBN: 0-9674074-0-0, ©1999

[ Preface | Introduction | Ari — A 7-year-old Grapples With the Holocaust ]

Preface

Simply put, reading Leo Liebermen is like going back home to Bubbe – revisiting a world of long-lost Yiddishkeit when all was warm and cozy and the shtetle still alive even here in America.

But you don’t necessarily have to be Jewish to love Memories of Laughter and Garlic. If you appreciate good writing, wit and wisdom – sprinkled with Yiddishisms reminiscent of Sholom Aleichem – this book is for you.

Lieberman consistently manages to keep things fresh – indeed, as if he’d gone back to Bubbe for more material.

But of course, it’s Lieberman’s world, a world some of us still remember with great fondness – and in case we forget – that’s where Lieberman comes in, to bring it all back. If not for our Leo Liebermans, a significant portion of our cherished past would no longer even be a memory. For that reason, all humor aside, this collection is essential.

Lieberman’s style is so deceptively simple that many readers probably don’t know that this man is a professor – an intellectual, noch!

That, of course, is precisely Lieberman’s gift – away with pretense and ostentation! If you think you’re a macher, Lieberman’s Tante Pesha will swiftly cut you down to size.

Some say that Yiddish, as a language, is dying out. Maybe yes, maybe no. But without question Yiddish inflections have enriched the English language. So if you need a translation of any Yiddish expression in this book, just flip to the back and check out Lieberman’s Glossary for the Yiddishly Challenged.

Anyway, the phrasing that charmingly turns English into Yiddish (or is it Yiddish into English?) comes up frequently in this work, as Lieberman has Mama say: "If your Papa had to chose between me and his checkers – better not ask!"

If forced to use one word to define this entire work, I’d go with "charm." I would not dare say that Lieberman’s essays are vital in preserving Jewish heritage – are you kidding?

Tante Pesha would only laugh and say, "Such a big deal from my Leo? Ay yi yi!"

Jack Engelhard, Author
"Indecent Proposal"

Introduction

There is a saying that, as a people, we are held together with a sense of memory. So it is, that the most solemn day of the year is sometimes called Yom Ha-Zicaron – the Day of Remembrance.

Now don’t get worried – you won’t need a dictionary or a knowledge of Hebrew or Yiddish (still...) to enjoy this book. (You might need a sense of humor, though. But not to worry – if you don’t have that, you will most likely develop one before you get half-way through!)

But back to our topic. I once attended a rally in Manhattan (that’s in New York – and some say that is New York!) and there were hundreds, maybe thousands of people all wearing buttons and carrying signs with the one word: "REMEMBER." We were being told not to forget the millions of people – men, women, and children…Jews, Righteous Gentiles, Gypsies, handicapped – who were slaughtered by the Nazis.

We are reminded in the Good Book to remember Amalek and what he did; how he used treachery against the Israelites. Well, this book, too, is remembrance, a sense of memory.

But must all memory be mournful? Must remembering always have such sad or doleful undertones, a music written in a minor key and etched into our psyche? I think not.

Memory contains a leavening of humor, of smiles, and even giggles. Admittedly, it is sometimes laughter through tears, but there is always the laughter – and the need not to take ourselves too seriously on every issue.

Remember the kid who came running home to announce to his grandfather, "Grandpa – Zaydie – did you hear? Did you hear the news?" And Grandpa looked up, confused, and the little boy continued, "The Dodgers just won the pennant! What do you think?!"

And the elderly Zaydie, looked up from his newspaper and asked, "So what does it mean for the Jews?"

And once, when Mama was past ninety and she was asked if she had any advice for those who wanted to live to a "ripe old age," she offered the following suggestion: "Every day you must eat a clove of raw garlic and also have one good laugh!"

Now I must admit that once in a while I forget the garlic clove. But the laugh…never!

So don’t take yourself too seriously. Just keep turning these pages and keep remembering – the happy as well as the serious. Both are important.

And be prepared to meet some very special people. Of course there will be Mama, and Uncle Maxie, and Lilly With The Nails, and Abie From The Shul. And there’s Fat Rosie From Apartment 3-C, and the rabbis and teachers, the Principal, and the Professor (after all, I’ve been a teacher for well over…never mind. Age is only a number. And who needs to count?) And especially there will be the one and only Tanta Pesha!

And in case you’re wondering if you have to be Jewish to enjoy this set of memories – of course not, although it wouldn’t hurt, either.

But enough already with this philosophy and this introduction. The proof of the noodle pudding is in the eating. So turn the pages and read. And, above all, enjoy!

Ari — A 7-year-old Grapples With the Holocaust

"Why didn’t someone stop them?"

He’s only a little guy with a mop of red-blond hair sitting on top of a pixie-ish face that contains a smile (devoid of a few front teeth) that calls for a hug. He’s seven years old and like all seven-year-old boys, he’s a perpetual motion machine, always moving, running, jumping, making catches with imaginary balls, and always succeeding in tossing the nonexistent ball into that nonexistent hoop and then jumping up as his ears catch the roar of the crowd.

His name is Ari, and in case I forgot to mention it, he also happens to be my grandson—one of four grandsons and flanked by four granddaughters. So of course, he’s very special.

And so one day when the phone rang and I picked it up on the second ring, I was delighted to hear the little voice at the other end of the line telling me that it was Ari. (Although I certainly had already guessed when he greeted me with the usual "Hello Grandpa" voice.)

And today there was a special request. "Grandpa, could you do me a favor?" I didn’t wait for a heartbeat to elapse before I informed him that whatever he wanted was his, even if it were for half my kingdom. (And this wasn’t even Purim!)

It wasn’t half my kingdom that he desired. All he wanted was to have me come over and be with him. Could I refuse? Down went the books. Off went the computer. On went the sweat shirt with the hood. And I arrived like the morning milk at his doorstep.

And so we decided—just we two guys, (sometimes it’s good to get away from three siblings and a mother and father)— to go on a treasure hunt. And what better place than the beach!

We were both in agreement, and after announcing our plans, we headed down to the beach. Here we discovered a wealth of treasures. Sometimes it is I who makes the discovery of a piece of driftwood that looks just like a bird; and sometimes it’s Ari who spots a conch half concealed under a mound of sand. And as we run (he runs, I walk) there’s an occasional wave that threatens us if we get too close to the water’s edge.

But so what? What are wet socks when the sun is shining and the sky is blue and the sand tickles your feet if you dare (double-dare with a "d") to remove your shoes?

And I must admit that I am taken by surprise when this seven-year-old looks at me and asks, "Grandpa, why did they kill so many people?"

I take a deep breath while he continues, "Why, Grandpa? They weren’t hurting anyone. Just because they were Jewish. Why should they be killed? Even little children. Why didn’t someone stop them?"

I try to think of a suitable answer, but none comes to my lips. What can I answer? Shall I tell him to ask his father? His mother? The Rabbi? All I can say is, "I don’t know either."

But Ari isn’t satisfied with this admission of ignorance and he keeps on. "Grandpa, you know everything. You’re a teacher. At college. You teach people all about what happened."

A pause from both of us and then from him, "So why?"

I can’t answer and I won’t give him a stock reply of "some Divine Plan" or some response that I don’t believe. So all I can do is scoop him up in my arms, treasures and all, and hug him.

We continue our walk, holding each other’s hand. The treasures are saved in a plastic bag and the sky is still blue and there are small birds on the beach. And it is such a day like this that caused the poet to exclaim, "God’s in His heaven; all’s right with the world."

But I squeeze the seven-year-old hand even tighter and he looks at me and says, "Don’t be sad, Grandpa. We won’t let it happen again when I grow up, will we?"

I suddenly become aware of my own mortality, my own shortcomings, and all I can answer is, "I certainly hope you’re right."

And I dab a tear from my eyes, telling Ari that some sand must have gotten into them.