Long before anyone thought of me, my family arrived in Germany as refugees. They quickly settled in and took advantage of the opportunities their new home offered. In a housing project for refugees, they were given the chance to build a house. The timing was perfect—just as the house was finished and the garden was being planted, I came into the world. Our home was in a small settlement on the outskirts of a village near Stuttgart, and I had my own soft fur blanket that I often lay on as a baby. For some reason, most of my baby photos were taken on that fur.
My mother once told me that she had known since she was seven years old that her first son would be named Ruben. Eventually, I became that Ruben—the first son after a series of sisters. I quickly became the family favorite, the second grandson to my grandparents, and the only son to my parents. At family gatherings or large reunions, I was often showered with affection by grandmothers — I barely knew what was happening to me. One of my most vivid memories is of a homeland gathering in the Schleierhalle, where all the older women gave me sweets and smothered me with hugs. I loved these gatherings because there were always treats, and the grandmothers were incredibly kind.
When I think about the language that was spoken back then, I immediately feel at home. Sadly, that language has now disappeared — the last generation who spoke it has passed on, and today it lives on in no one. It was a blend of German, Russian, Ukrainian, Romanian, a little French, Swiss German, and Yiddish.