I think the question of fear is a good one, one I can't answer, though...wondering the same thing here...
During the World War II I was Anna and hated the German language. In my own life I skipped my German language classes. Didn't care. My parents did not know what to do with me. I could not stand listening to it, much less learning it. It was very strong feeling with me. My parents never believed I was Anna and had lived in Italy during WW2 and I was told to not say a word of it to anyone.
During the war I also developed a dislike against our own soldiers, Mussolini, and when the American troopers came (my future husband Vito, Italian-American as they call them, came too) I was not completely crazy about them either. I just hated war and I did not like to see anyone in uniform. I did not gush. I was fascinated by the Vito spoke. He had no accent. He looked 100% Italian, and spoke with a Brooklyn accent. I couldn't get over that. When he spoke Italian he spoke so slow at first, so I was like telling him not to do that or people would think he was slow for real. He was offended but laughing at the same time. He never, not once that I can remember, put me down even if I was terrible, just terrible, with the American language, he would lean towards me and say the right word or explain something, he would try to transform it to something else by putting his hand on my arm, say something in my ear, and kiss me very gently and quickly near the ear, as if that was his first mission to do, not to tell me the right word. Now I don't know, but in my memory there was a gesture with the hand and the face, underneath the chin, I think, some sort, anyhow that I did once when I was so mad, we had just come from somewhere, think people were in our living room and he came with me to the kitchen, and I did that gesture. His mouth got wide open, his eyes stared at me, and he couldn't believe it, that I did that gesture. I don't know what it meant, more than it was something bad. I was so frustrated because I did not know the words, the American ones, and I don't think that would have been enough. I can't remember that his parents or siblings or other relatives or friends spoke Italian in Brooklyn, perhaps a word or two. When I got mad I would take to my old dear Italian words, no American word could beat that, I thought
I hope I don't make anyone mad at me for writing in this way about the German language. I think it is what it stood for, for me, emotionally, practically it is a good language. It is just me with the bad memories from it that transform it to something bad.
Best Wishes
Li-La
