how to learn any language-第6章
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from that deck chair。
If I had never been drawn to foreign languages earlier； that moment alone would
have done it。 To me at that time； it was the white suited bwana speaking something pure
“jungle” to one of his water carriers in any one of a hundred and eighteen safari movies
I’d seen。 It was Humphrey Bogart melting a glamourous woman’s kneecaps with a burst
of bush talk she had no idea he even knew。
“Where did you learn that？” I asked。 It turned out that Hans； like many of his
Dutch confreres； had been born in Java of mixed parents。 His Indonesian was just as good
as his Dutch。 “Will you teach me some？” I asked。
For the next eight days； until we were interrupted by the New York City skyline；
Hans patiently taught me the Indonesian language。 When we parted； I was able to
converse with the Indonesian crewmen； just as Hans had that first day on deck。 Lest this
come across as a boast； let me hasten to point out that Indonesian is the easiest language
in the world – no hedging； no “almost”； no “among the easiest”。 In my experience；
Indonesian is the easiest。 The grammar is minimal； regular； and simple。 Once I began to
learn it； Indonesian didn’t seem “jungle” anymore。 The Indonesians obligingly use the
Roman alphabet； and they get along with fewer letters of it than we do。 And their tongue
has an instant charm。 The Indonesian word for “sun”； mata hari （the famous female spy
was known as the “sun” of Asia） literally means “eye of the day”。 When they make a
singular noun plural in Indonesia； they merely say it twice。 “Man；” for example； is orang。
“Men” is orang orang。 And when they write it； they just write one orang and put a 2 after
it； like an exponent in algebra （Orang 2）。 Orang hutan； the ape name pronounced by
many Americans as if it were “orang…u…tang；” is an Indonesian term meaning “man of the
forest。”
My Toughest Opponent
For the next four years I avoided taking up any new languages。 I had nothing against any
of them （except one）。 It was just that there were too many gaps in the tongues I’d already
entertained and I wanted to plug them up。
The language I had something against was Hungarian。 Before a summer weekend
with army buddies in Rehoboth Beach； Delaware； I went to the post library and checked
out an army phrase book in Hungarian to look at over the weekend。 The introduction
bluntly warned； “Hungarian is perhaps the hardest language in the world； and it is spoken
by only about ten million people。” I resolved I’d never get any closer to it。
Hungarian was the next language I studied。
When Hungary rebelled against Soviet oppression in 1956； I was invited by the
U。S。 Air Force to join a team of reporters covering Operation Safe Haven； the airlift of all
Hungarian refugees who were to receive asylum in the United States。 That was far from
enough to make me want to study Hungarian – yet。
Every child is treated to fantasies like Buck Rogers and his invincible ray gun；
Superman； Batman； or； in my case； Jack Armstrong and his “mystery eye”； a power
imparted to him by a friendly Hindu who； merely by concentrating and holding his palms
straight out； could stop every oncoming object from a fist to a bullet to a bull to an
express train。 By this time I began to note that similar powers – offensive and defensive –
could unexpectedly and delightfully accompany the mastery of languages。
No Iron Curtains for Language
Many reporters got to the Hungarian border with Austria during the outpouring of
refugees that followed the Soviet oppression of the Hungarian freedom fighters。 They
went to the Red Cross shelters on the Austrian side； interviewed some refugees and relief
workers； and went home。 I was invited to join a secret team of volunteer international
“commandos” who actually slipped into Hungary by night to ferry refugees across the
border canal on a rubber raft。
The centre of the refugee operation was the Austrian border village of Andau。 I
asked a local policeman in German where the refugee headquarters was。 It was Christmas
night。 It was dark。 It was cold。 There were no tour bus operators on the streets hawking
tickets to the Hungarian border。 He told me to go to Pieck’s Inn。 At Pieck’s Inn the
bartender said； “Room nineteen。” The fact that I was getting all this in German without
looking around for somebody who spoke English was a convenience； but that’s not what
I mean by the power of another language。 That came next。
I went upstairs to room nineteen and knocked on the door。 “Who’s there？” shouted
a voice in interestingly accented English。
“I’m an American newspaper reporter；” I yelled back。 “I understand you might help
me get to the Hungarian border。”
He opened the door cussing。 “I’ll never take another American to the border with us
again；” he said before the door even opened。 “No more Americans！ One of you bastards
damned near got us all captured night before last。”
He turned out to be a pleasant looking young man with blonde hair。 When I
knocked； he was busy adjusting heavy duty combat boots。 He continued his tirade as we
faced each other。 “That American knew damned good and well that flashlights；
flashbulbs； even matches were forbidden。” He went on in rougher language than I’ll here
repeat to tell how an American with a camera broke his promise and popped off a
flashbulb while a raft load of refugees was in the middle of the canal； causing the
refugees and the rescuers on both sides of the canal to scatter。 That burst of light； of
course； let the Communists know exactly where the escape operation was taking place。
He described in valiant but not native English exactly how much ice would have to form
around the shell of hell before any other American reporter or any reporter of any kind
would ever be invited to join the operation again。
As he railed on； I noticed a Norwegian flag tacked to the wall behind him。 “Snakker
De norsk？” I asked （“Do you speak Norwegian？”）。
He stopped； said nothing for a few seconds。 Then； like a Hollywood comic of the
1940’s pulling an absurd reversal； he said； “You’ve got big feet； but there’s a pair of
boots on the other side of the bed that might fit you。 Try ‘em on！”
All night long we stood there waiting for the shadows to tell us that another group
of refugees had arrived on the far bank of the canal。 Then we’d push the raft into the
water and play out the rope as our two boatmen paddled across。 One would get out and
help four or five Hungarians into the raft。 When the raft was loaded； the boatman still in
the raft would tug on the rope and we’d pull it back over。 Then the lone boatman would
paddle over again and repeat the process until all the refugees were on the Austrian side。
The second boatman came back with the last load。
We had to wait at least an hour to an hour and a half between refugee clusters。 I was
the coldest I’d ever been in my life； and there was no place to huddle behind or curl up
inside。 All we could do was stand there and wait。 Light wasn’t the only thing prohibited。
So was talk。 Normal speech travels surprisingly far over frozen flatland； and it was
important not to betray our position to the Communist patrols。 We were only allowed to
whisper softly to the person immediately ahead of us on the rope and the person
immediately behind。
I tried to remember what day it was。 It was Thursday。 It had only been the previous
Saturday night when I’d taken a Norwegian girl； Meta Heiberg； from Woman’s College
to the Carolina Theatre in Greensboro； North Carolina； where we saw newsreels of
almost the very spot where I was now standing。 When the screen showed Hungarian
refugees pouring into Austria； Meta had said； “My sister Karen’s over there somewhere
helping those people。” That was all。
The next day I got the call inviting me to fly over with the air force。 On Monday I
flew。 And here I was； freezing and waiting and marvelling at the co
