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Nahanni: Hi, it’s Nahanni Rous. Welcome back to Can We Talk?, the podcast of the Jewish Women’s Archive, where gender, history and Jewish culture meet.

Lenora LaMarche was born in 1921 in the Sephardic Jewish community in Seattle, Washington. She was born Lenora Peha, and was better known as Leni. Leni grew up speaking Ladino. For over 30 years, she wrote a Ladino column in her synagogue newspaper. It was called “Bavajadas De Benadam.”

Leni: Bavajadas in a slang Ladino expression meaning a bunch of foolishness. So, bavajadas, a bunch of foolishness. De, of. Benadam—ben is “son of” in Hebrew. Adam is “Adam and Eve,” which means “human being.” So it's Bavajadas De Benadam!

Nahanni: Or people’s foolish little sayings. In the column, Leni chronicled the life of her community and created a lexicon of Ladino phrases. She recorded stories her mother had passed down from her childhood on the island of Rhodes, which is now part of Greece, but was then in the Ottoman empire.

Leni’s ancestors had settled in Rhodes after fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. In the early twentieth century, her parents and grandparents left Rhodes for Seattle. They joined a small but growing Sephardic community of Jews from Rhodes and Turkey.

In 2001, Leni told her story as part of the Jewish Women’s Archive oral history project, Weaving Women’s Words.

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Roz Bornstein:  Hi, this is Roz Bornstein, and it is May 4, 2001. And I'm on Mercer Island, Washington, at the home of Leni LaMarche. Leni, do I have your permission to tape you today?

Leni LaMarche:  Ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent. I mean 100 percent yes.

Roz:  [laughs] Thank you very much. 

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Nahanni: In this episode of Can We Talk?, we’ll hear excerpts of Leni LaMarche’s interview. She reminisces about her Sephardic upbringing and talks about how she became a comedian and storyteller, peppering her stories with Ladino words and sayings. She also talks about her grandparents’ modest beginnings. Her maternal grandfather was born in Rhodes in 1864, her grandmother in 1870.

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Leni: Like most people, we don't ask questions until the person is deceased, and then you wonder, what are you going to do?  Who's going to know the answer? 

But I do want to tell you how much I admire my grandmother. Her name was Luna—Luna in Spanish meaning “moon.” And my grandfather's name was Eliezer Benveniste.  Anyway, they had nine children. And everybody was poor there, and everybody had that many children. It was nothing so rare. They lived in the old city, but they lived in what they called the ghettos. No running water, so they had to go out to a poso. The poso means a well, and that's where they would get in line with your chanaka, and that's a Turkish word meaning… a container. 

And the Sephardics lived in one area, the Greeks lived in the other area, the Turks lived in another area, and so on. 

Nahanni: Leni’s grandmother worked in a factory packing dates and figs. Her grandfather was a peddler who sold pots and pans. Many of the Jews in Rhodes were leaving for better economic opportunities, and to escape discrimination. Leni’s oldest aunt and two of her uncles had already left for America. Her grandmother went to visit to help with her daughter’s first baby. She ended up staying and working as a midwife for young Sephardic mothers. Eventually, she saved enough money to bring the rest of her family to America.

Leni:  So, she sent them the fare in this big envelope, and my Aunt Betty said because that envelope arrived in Rhodes before Shabbat ended—they got it on a Shabbat—my grandpa would not tear it open because it was against the Jewish law to tear anything. They had to wait until the three stars were up in the heavens, which meant Shabbat is over with. And my grandpa opened it up and there was all this [money] for them to come to the United States. 

They went wild. “We are going to America. America!”  You know, got excited. Anyway, they came to America with that money.

Roz:  What year was this when the rest of the family came over?

Leni:  My grandmother came here in 1914, and my mother came here in 1916. She must have been about 18, 19 years old then. They came to Seattle. What's my grandfather going to do?  When you're 55 years old, you're old. And he was old. He had a beard. But what could he do? So, he taught Hebrew school.

Roz:  In Seattle.

Leni:  In Seattle.

Roz:  For what community?  For the Sephardic community?

Leni:  Oh, yeah. Because they had nothing to do with the Ashkenazics. Ashkenazics had nothing to do with the Sephardics, so they kind of shied away. Because they were used to living that way in the old country. 

Nahanni: The Jews from Rhodes, who called themselves “Rhodeslis,”  founded their own congregation, Ezra Bessaroth, in 1917. Around the same time, the Sephardim from Turkey started Bikur Cholim. Both are still Orthodox synagogues today. In the early twentieth century, the Sephardic communities were tight-knit. Life cycle celebrations were traditional, communal affairs. Leni's parents met at a family wedding in the nineteen-teens.

Leni: Then when my mother got engaged, there would be a big ritual. We called it the mandatha. So the mandatha for engagement. You'd call all your friends over, and you'd have a big fiesta, you know. We called that vishita and people always had vishitas to go to then. Not now.

Leni: And then, for the marriage, they had baño de novia; they go to the mikvah. That's when they go to the bath. Then, when the woman would come in with her hair all wet and her fingers all clipped, cheeks were rosy. She walks in with this grin, very embarrassed, knowing that some of the ladies saw her in the nude in the baño. Then, she would come in, and everybody would be applauding, because they would sing this song, [singing] “Kon bien mi lavi, kon bien mi shavoni, la la la la la…” [I wash myself and soap myself well].

Anyway, they would sing this and then everybody—“La viene la novia!” [Here comes the bride]. It was kind of fun to see that. And of course, I used to wonder about these old women—when they talk about dirty old men, these are dirty old ladies [laughs], because they think, “Oh, boy, you're going to have some fun tonight now, honey!”

Roz:  What do you remember about your early childhood in Seattle?

Leni:  Well, I have a very vivid memory. My grandfather was a very holy, godly man. He used to–—when I’d step on an ant, I remember him telling me, when I was a little girl, “No mates las ermigas because tienen alma.”  And that meant, “Do not step on those ants because those ants have a soul.” 

And then I remember my dad working in the Rhodes Department Store. He had a little stanja. Stanja in Ladino is a little shop, and there he shined shoes. And if somebody wanted shoelaces or maybe polish, he would sell it to them. That's it. I mean, he wasn't the best businessman, but he made a pretty good living there, even during the Depression. 

And every Friday night, my mother would be in her glory. The meals were all cooked and all that, and she would tell us stories about Juha. Stupid Juha. 

Roz:  Do you remember any really short or quick stories that you can tell us here, or one that your mother would tell you that you really enjoy?

Leni:  Habia decir un hombre [inaudible] Juha… [Continues story in Ladino, fades down under narration]

Nahanni: Once upon a time, there was a young man named Juha, who was engaged to Bolisa. On Rosh Hashanah, Bolisa’s mother invited Juha to their home for a delicious dinner, which he greatly enjoyed. But when it was time to go home, he was greeted by thunder and lightning and torrential rain. His future mother-in-law suggested he stay the night, saying, “You couldn’t possibly go home in this downpour, you’ll be drenched.” The two women went upstairs to make his bed. When they came back, he was nowhere to be found. 

Bolisa cried, “Oh Dio!” thinking her fiance had left her. Then there was a knock at the door. It was Juha, soaking wet. “Juha, what happened? Where did you go?” 

Leni: “Me fue a casa para tomar el shumees[?].” 

Nahanni: Juha said, “I went home to get my pajamas.” [Roz and Leni laugh]

Leni: So they’re all like that. 

Roz:  And this was—your mother would teach these stories to you.

Leni:  Oh, she would tell us, Friday nights. And you know, I remembered everything.

Roz:  Was this for entertainment for the family, or was it to teach them a moral?

Leni:  To laugh. You had to have somebody to echar lashon [schmooze] and to tell stories.

Nahanni:  Leni inherited her mother’s gift for entertaining people. Her mother encouraged it, dressing her like a rabbi and getting her to do imitations.

Leni:  And um, there was one man—I won't mention his name—one man, when I was a kid here, I used to watch him. I was about eight, nine years old. He'd be what the Ashkenazic call davening, to daven. We don't do that that much. They go back and forth, back and forth. And so my mother would say, “Come on, get up there and show us how Mr. So-and-So. I'd go [imitates prayer and snoring, laughs]. And they thought that was so funny. And I figure, “Well, if they think it's funny…” and I would do it.”  Anyway, so that's how I got into making people laugh.

Roz:  Where did you perform this skit?

Leni:  Right in the living room. That's how movie stars came to be. I don’t know what happened to me.

Roz:  What did you do after high school?

Leni:  I worked in a factory….with beds prings, because I had no confidence in myself. And the only time I got any accolades, any laughter, was when I used to entertain.

Nahanni: In her early 20s, Leni married a man from the Sephardic community. They had a daughter, but divorced when the baby was one. Leni had to board her daughter with other families while she worked, then finally they moved in with a friend. Soon, Leni met Duke LaMarche. They dated for a year and then decided they wanted to get married, even though Duke wasn’t Jewish.

Leni: In those days, “Marry a non-Jew? God forbid.”  And then when [he?] came to tell my mother —you know, I can still see her. She was in the bathroom putting on her hat. And she says, “Ay Dio Dio. Cualo estas hablando?” [What are you talking about?] And she got into that, in Spanish [continues in Spanish}. Oh, boy. I went home and, of course, cried that day, cried the next day, cried the day after that. And I can understand that her daughter, in that year, should marry a non-Jew—God forbid. 

Nahanni: It was 1945, the year that World War II ended, and the scale of the destruction of European Jews was coming to light.

Leni: One day, all of a sudden, I thought of it. I lay there in bed and thought, “Wait a minute”—like I was born again. “Why can't I get married? Why can't I have a Jewish home?” And I suddenly thought, “I'm going to marry him.”  So, I called him up, and I says—I told him that it's not going to be a 50/50 proposition in our marriage, because I'm too Jewish, my kids are going to be Jewish, and that's the only way I'll take him. And he says, “You know, I have no religion at all. Never went to Sunday school.” And he was quite the reader, and I learned a lot about the Ladinos from him, Sephardics and whatnot. So I mean, that was just music to my ears. “We're going to get married.”  “Oh, allegria grande!”  He was so happy. So, we got married. 

Nahanni: Leni’s mother grew to love Duke, but never fully accepted their marriage. Leni and Duke lived in the middle of the Sephardic neighborhood, and were both very involved in the Jewish community. Duke even wore a tallit when they went to synagogue, though he never converted. They had three boys, plus her daughter from her first marriage. When her children got older, Leni volunteered at a Jewish retirement home where her grandmother lived. 

Leni: When I started there 27 years ago, the main reason I went there is because when I went to visit and I looked around, I saw where the Sephardics are continuing their characters of being by themselves, because their English wasn't good. But amongst each other, they can talk, you know.

Nahanni: Leni led a Ladino program for the Sephardic women. She’d read to them, do comedy, and tell Juha stories. Sometimes she had to use her charm to coax them to come.

Leni: The ladies then were, “Oh, I don't feel good,” [inaudible Ladino] “Come on, come on.”  I don't want to mention names. “Come here, and I'll get your shoes.”  “Oh, no, hija.” “Oh, please, come on.” [inaudible Ladino ] For me they’re going to do that. I went, “All right.”  I go around, find the shoes, put them on, get her wheelchair, get a man.... Anyway, little by little, I got to know the ladies there, the residents.

And then, it annoyed me when I saw one Ashkenazic lady mimicking one of the ladies that spoke Ladino, and I didn't know what to do. And I says, “I'm not going to scold her.”  And I got to tell them about, “What is Sephardic? What is it?”  I explained to them the story, and they said, “Well, I didn't know that.” You know, those Ashkenazics did not know there was such a thing as a Sephardic Jew. So anyway, I explained that story. I feel bad saying anything negative about this lady, because she apologized. She said, “Well, I didn't know they went through all that. Somebody should have told us.” And so after that, they were a little kinder to our ladies.

Nahanni: Leni started as a volunteer and ended up working at the senior center. She also polished her comedy act and became a standup comedian. Here, she describes performing at a Sephardic convention in Los Angeles. The audience loved her—she reminded them of their grandparents.

Leni:  All I had to do was get on the front where the stage is supposed to be. And I just walked out. Everybody started roaring laughing. So, they knew me, and I didn't have to say much to make them laugh. Before I even end up, they started this laughing. Like when I started, I go, “Hombres y Mujeres”  [ladies and gentlemen.} And everybody would laugh and laugh. “Adio, de que estas riendo, cualo vu a no es coas de reir, ay por dolor, mira, awerra no respecto del todo.”

Nahanni:  What are you laughing at? So disrespectful! 

Leni: So this is what it is. And you can laugh, because you get an idea of what your grandma was talking about. But our Sephardic young people don't speak it much. They understand it, but they don't speak it, and they got a big bang out of the way I was imitating these old ladies, complaining about their daughter-in-law, complaining about their kids, complaining about their synagogue, and I was using terminology that only was used by our mothers. Well, I could hear people saying, “Oh, my mother was like that. Oh, my grandmother was like you. You sound just like my aunt.”

Nahanni:  Leni’s aunts, her grandmother, and mother passed on a rich lexicon of Ladino words and stories. Leni collected them in her column, “Bavajadas De Benadam.” She’d use some of the phrases in her standup routine.

“Achuncate!”— “Sit your ass down!”  Everybody laughed when they heard that. They haven't heard this since they were children. “Achuncate!”  “Aringa.” And then I would say, “xi.” And I'd go [sings] “Aringa, ringa rosy.” [laughs] Then, “cayida” [?]– literally “falling star,” bad luck person. “Cayida que te vega.” [?] The people from Turkey used to say this a lot. Bad luck. But it was said in jest. But if you were really angry and then you would say, “Cayida que te vega”[?] and then boy, there would be a big fight. So, all these words.

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Nahanni: Leni’s Ladino words and stories hold the cultural memory of her family and community. Leni LaMarche died in 2012 at age 90, in the same retirement home where she worked. She had four children, eight grandchildren, and eleven great-grandchildren. In her obituary, she was remembered for “[h]er unconditional love, contagious smile, quick humor, and well-earned authority on everything Sephardic.”

In her interview, Leni remarked that few young Sephardic people spoke Ladino. Today, Ladino is seeing a resurgence, as Jews, many of them in their 20s, are taking an interest in the language. In our next episode, we’ll hear from Ladino speakers and experts about their efforts to breathe new life into the language through Ladino clubs, Zoom lessons, and online forums. 

Thank you for joining us for Can We Talk?, the podcast of the Jewish Women’s Archive. Our team includes Jen Richler and Judith Rosenbaum. Our theme music is by Girls in Trouble. Find us online at jwa.org/canwetalk or on your favorite podcast app.

I’m Nahanni Rous—until next time. 

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