Eulogy of Daniel Marlin, friend
In the Spring of this year Carole and I decided to reread Jayne Eyre, the novel by Charlotte Bronte, and compare notes. The last time I'd read the book was when it was assigned in high school English Class, and only a few impressions remained. In a telephone conversation about a month later, I told Carole how deeply moved I was by the power and humanity of the story.
There was, to me, an obvious parallel between Jayne's experience as a child,
sent to live with a relative who barely tolerated her , and Carole's , after her mother died in Brooklyn, when she 10. It struck me that Carole's deep sense of gratitude for the good things in her life, friendship & love, and the redeeming world of writing and reading, was heightened by her early experience of living where she never felt welcome. It enabled her to identify with others' pain and isolation, and it
moved her to respond with healing energy. One form of liberating energy that Carole communicated , with which we're all familiar, was her rich primal laughter.
I met Carole at the first session of a Yiddish class held at the Berkeley Public Library in January, 1980. She walked back and forth at night from her home to downtown Berkeley. Her short hair, her simple jogging clothes imparted an impression of frugality.
Roda, our teacher, communicated enthusiasm for the subject; we soon learned a new alphabet
and sang haunting folk songs in class, but Roda's abrasive ways and her narrow-mindedness
drove away many interested students, especially those she did not think belonged. “Why”, she asked, “do you want to study this if you're not Jewish?” After a crowded first session, we were, before long, down to 5 or 6 die-hards.
After a month or so of studying together, Carole invited me to her house for a visit. Over time, we realized the things we had in common.We were both born in Brooklyn and grew up in New York. We were dedicated writers. Like Carole, I lost my mother at a early age. We loved Dostoevsky and Tennessee Williams, V.S. Naipul and Jane Austen. Each of us found in literature a way to honor resilience, but also vulnerability and confusion, to mirror our own lives and make sense of them.
Carole and I shared stories. We became familiar with each others' cast of life characters,
those who we loved, those who drove us crazy ( and sometimes vice versa), those who entertained or menaced us, and those whose generosity and wisdom was balm. We pondered the quirks and irrationalities in many human interactions-especially our own!
Our conversations took place over apples and loquats from the backyard on El Dorado Ave, and later over home-made apple bread and tea.
We were fated to share one more defining experience. Carole and I were each diagnosed with serious cancers in the 1980's and '90's.The medical struggles which followed wove a thread of deep uncertainty into our lives. It was often possible, though, to transcend these anxieties when were feeling well. We discussed our worries frequently- when possible in a cool and rational manner. Carole quoted a phrase attributed to Jesus on the subject, “Which of you by worrying can add one hour to his life?” In less composed moments, we reminded each other of that insight.
In 1993 I required biopsy surgery. I was extremely nervous about the operation and grieving for a recent loss. I appreciated Carole's offer to drive me to Kaiser Oakland and to sit in on a pre-op visit with the surgeon.
Carole must have been concerned that day that my appearance- shoulder-length hair, wild beard , habitually casual wardrobe- might in some way negatively affect the doctor's attitude toward me, and compromise the quality of care I would receive. (The doctor, it turned out, was affable and utterly professional. I'm sure he didn't care what I looked like.) While we were waiting for the surgeon , I was startled to notice that Carole's clothes were unusually formal and elegant- she wore a pearl necklace and high heels.
“ Carole,” I asked, “Why are you so dressed up today?” She looked at me with a kind smile
and answered, “I thought I'd better dress for both of us.”
She was immensely helpful to me in very practical ways. Carole enjoyed the roles of matchmaker, impresario, booster- and employment agent.
Although she never found me a wife, ( I never asked her to) she expressed pride in her success as a matchmaker, especially by introducing me to a partner in great exploration, Malka Heifetz Tussman. Malka was a Yiddish poet , then in her mid-eighties, living in Berkeley. She was a highly original, often irreverent writer and a compelling personality. She'd been acquainted with all the giants of modern Yiddish poetry; she was an able and intimate guide to their work, and she was happy to share this treasure with an eager fellow poet and student of Yiddish, like me. It was a vital and nourishing exchange, which lasted, weekly, until her death six years later.
Carole the impresario had produced several moving solo cello concerts by Daniel Malkin, before she arranged my literary reading. These performances took place in the living room of 1967 El Dorado, the audience facing the great elm trees out the window. Carole wanted me to read the poems I'd been sharing with her about the loading dock of the Oakland Post Office, where I was then working. My co-reader, who I met for the first time that day, was Dorothy Witt. The folded chairs in the living room were full for our reading, the audience was warm and responsive; it was a memorable and gratifying event.
Carole loyally spread the word about my publications and art work, and she was quick to pass on work opportunities over the years. When her neighbor needed a gardener, I was hired to pull weeds, trim bouganvillea, and turn the earth under her roses.While Carole was promoting her book The Journeys of David Tobak , based on her grandfather's Yiddish diaries, she encountered a number of people who themselves had Yiddish manuscripts by deceased relatives which they were eager to read. She sent them to me and I translated some very interesting material, most of it literary.
Finally, after she moved to the base of Pike's Peak, Carole, in an apparently innocent e-mail,
introduced a last hilarious character, Feivel, into the theater of our correspondence. Feivel's strange and zealous ambition was to conscript my vegan Berkeley apartment for an urban chicken farm, and Feivel would not take 'no' for an answer! Carole and I each assumed at first politely warring personalities,
but before it was all over, chaos and mayhem, most politically incorrect, ensued. It was enormous fun.
Carole watched over me as a friend.
I will always be grateful for her.