Learning Beyond the Books

As a child, one of my favorite places to visit was the library. I would often beg my grandmother to take me to the Rego Park Library, and every now and then she would give in to my wishes. Holding my hand, she would shuffle her weary feet for twenty minutes to get there. Except for the pain in her legs, she didn’t mind going there. The library’s collection of Russian books was quite good, so I knew that she wouldn’t be too bored while she waited for me to scout the place for yet another Penguin classic.

Amongst all the hours that I spent in that place, there is one experience that stands out amongst the rest. Standing in front of a grandiose cabinet, I scanned the books to find a specific title. Not spotting it on the shelves, I looked through the collection a second and then a third time. The book wasn’t to be found. I was left with one choice; a choice that I dreaded for as long as I knew of the existence of libraries.

I took my grandmother’s hand and reluctantly made my way to a librarian. There were a few of them sitting at their desks, engrossed in filling out some computerized charts. The gleam of their computer screens hit their faces and illuminated their every drooping wrinkle, every bag under their bloodshot eyes, and each excess hair that grew above their frowning lip.

Now, I might be slightly exaggerating when it comes to their descriptions. But the fear inside me, that was real.

I approached a lady that didn’t look as petrifying as the rest. She was wearing thick round glasses and her few blonde hairs were all combed backwards. Her fingers slowly pressed the buttons on her keyboard. She was still stuck in the 70s. “Um, may I ask you a question?” my thin voice asked.

Her eyes moved from the computer to my face.  With a voice so monotone and computerized she responded. “Yes?”

Gaining more courage, I told her about the book that I was looking for. She searched the title and author in the electronic database and reported to me, with the same unenthusiastic tone, that Rego Park Library did not carry such a book.

My spirits crushed, I turned to my grandmother. “Ok babushka, we can go home,” I said in Russian.

Grandmother looked at me for a moment, her gaze always so loving and tender. She turned to the librarian. “Ex cooz me, doo you,” she hesitated, “speak Russian?” That was about as much English as my grandmother could muster.

The librarian’s frown grew even deeper and she stared at my grandmother for a moment. Then shaking her head almost violently she spit out the obvious word. “No”. Everything about her suggested that she was irked by the question. It was as if it caught her off guard, making her lose her mechanical and oh so precious way of addressing others.

My grandmother shrugged her shoulders and beckoned me to go to the other part of the library, where she knew I would enjoy looking at the newly arrived movies. As I began to walk away, I caught sight of someone else approaching the librarian. I stopped to see if she would treat the other person with the same demeanor.

The lady approaching her was another, younger, librarian. She sat in the chair next to her, crossed her lean legs, and in an alarmingly high-pitched voice began to recount the details of last night – in Russian. She was answered, of course, in the same language.

So I stood there, wondering.

I always thought that all members of the past USSR shared some sort of bond. Ninety-nine out of one hundred times, meeting a fellow Eastern European would be such a heartwarming pleasure.

Why was it such a trouble to admit that she spoke Russian? Was she embarrassed? Had my grandmother offended her in some way? The answer to all those questions will forever remain a mystery to me. It was certain, however, that if I dared to ask one of those questions, her reply would not be pleasant.

But as we say in mother Russia, when there is nothing good to be said, keep your tongue behind your teeth. I guess she was more Russian than I gave her credit for.

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