From the last 365:
177/365 A Third GeorgeA Russian kept alive by the Germans to translate between guards and prisoners, he came to the states a refugee and started over at a Pennsylvania college. Having lost his academic credentials, he began as janitor and student, but soon became a beloved professor.
I have a book called This I Remember: from War to Peace, by George. It was published by
a small religious press about ten years after I had spent hours with him,
typing (on a real typewriter) as he recalled memory after memory, starting each
one with “I remember . . .” The book is sectioned chronologically: his Russian
childhood, his career, his army and imprisonment, his years as a displaced
person after World War II, his landing at the college and his eventual rise to
professor. It is a simple book, in a way, short, fascinating, and I need to
reread it. I remember those many hours sitting with him, typing his stories,
the clack of the keys.
George shared the first joke he ever understood
in English. I’ve never forgotten it: Two ladies were talking. One asked the
other, “Do you like Kipling?” The other replied, “Honestly, dear, I don’t know
how to kipple.”
I love the sweet joke.
ReplyDeleteI wish I knew a better word than coincidence—one with richer meaning. Anyway, here's this: Last night my granddaughter, who is 27, asked if I had a copy of an essay she wrote years ago. I haven't found it so far, but I discovered something she wrote when she was 10. It was titled "I Remember," and every one of its seven long lines began with "I remember . . ."
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DeleteOh, that's wonderful.
DeleteThis is lovely.
ReplyDeleteOk that's a pretty good little joke
ReplyDeleteI'd like to read that. His sounds a fascinating life.
ReplyDeleteThat sounds like something my husband would like.
ReplyDelete