Last week, quite naturally my thoughts returned to Sept. 11, 2001, and the heroism displayed by both the FDNY and my NYPD in our darkest hours. But in my 33 years as a New York cop, every once in a while there was a lighter moment and this story is about one of those times.

I was reminded of that fact recently when my two grandsons, Robbie, nearing 10 years of age, and Phil, now 6, were at our house recently and playing "cops and robbers" with some of the souvenirs I'd kept from my days in NYPD. My "keepers" included two police uniform hats, two nightsticks, empty cartridge holders, a whistle and assorted souvenirs. I'd had to turn in the NYPD "Bible," our thick "Rules and Procedures," my riot helmet and my two firearms, those temporarily, and I'd given my uniforms to officers whom I was leaving behind, but everything else was mine because I paid for it, as did we all.

Robbie, while rummaging in my bottom dresser drawer, came up with my old leather-covered memo book jacket with a Spanish phrase booklet in a compartment of that piece of equipment, and he began perusing it. I told him that when I was a young cop on patrol, that booklet was a handy and necessary item in the neighborhood of the precinct in which I worked.

My grandson is an excellent reader and he said, "Now grandpa, this is a test to see how good your memory of Spanish is." He read from the booklet and said, "How do you say, 'do you need help?' and 'Are you hungry?'" I gave it some thought then said, "Necesita ayuda" and "Tiene hambre?" and I surprised both of us; in my case, those days and nights were so long ago.

Then my pal surprised me with a $20 word when he said, "Gee grandpa, you're multilingual!" I asked Robbie what made him think that and he said, "You speak New York English (someone's been telling him that), Spanish and German."

I told him that I was far from being multilingual and that I spoke only un poco Espaol and less German. Robbie countered with "That's not true grandpa, you taught me to say 'play ball' in German (spiel mit dem ball), thank you (danke schon), and street car (strasse bund)."

That's when I explained to Robbie that I was born in Ridgewood, Queens, N.Y., where 75 percent of the families were German and the other 25 percent were Irish and Italian. I mentioned the fact that most of my boyhood friends were of German descent and how I picked up a bit of German from their moms, who would yell at us street kids once in a while.

On Saturdays, those German hausfraus would be scrubbing their cement stoops and we kids would be playing stickball in the gutter. If a line drive came close to a frau's head, we'd get a "Get out of here fast!" (Rouse mit dir und schnell.) So, I guess I did pick up some pidgin German, but really not much.

But after the boys went home that evening, I recalled a time and place when, for a while, I kicked myself for not learning German when I had a chance. There came a day when I thought I'd need it desperately.

The year was 1971 and by then I was a lieutenant and a 15-year veteran of the NYPD and running the Criminal Justice Bureau's Major Violators squad. A retired Long Island Police Commissioner had been named Deputy Commissioner of the department's 1,200 member Criminal Justice Bureau, and while getting his feet on the ground, had called on me several times when he needed information and needed it fast.

If I didn't have the answers on hand, I did have the contacts by then, and fortunately I was batting 1,000 with the boss of bosses.

Somewhere along the way, he asked where I came from in New York City and when I said, Ridgewood, Queens, his eyes opened wide with delight and surprise and he told me that his grandparents had lived in Ridgewood years before, and he was familiar with the neighborhood. The boss mentioned the Rathskeller on Myrtle Avenue in old German town and Kioodles and Old King Cole German pubs on Onderdonk Avenue, not far from where I once lived.

But there once came a morning I've never forgotten. The Commissioner called me with a request (order in NYPD) that I've never forgotten. He said "Buddy, I need you, can you be at my office before 1100 hours?" All I could say was, "Yes, sir."

I made it with minutes to spare and his first words were, "Thank God you're here. The Mayor and Police Commissioner of Munich, Germany will be arriving shortly and I need a German interpreter." That almost floored me.

I told the boss that I only knew a few phrases in German like, "Let's have a beer, Gussie" (Bier haben Gussie) and "Girlie, what's your name?" (Fraulein vas es di namma?) To that, a frantic Commissioner said, "Good enough." The poor man thought I spoke German.

Well, the Mayor and Police Commissioner of Munich arrived at exactly 1100 hours and my boss and I stood up to greet them. Before I could say, I don't know what, those gentleman clicked their heels and in English said, "Good morning, gentlemen." I was saved.

The other day, in conversation with our first Napa neighbors and good friends, Helga Lucas from Hamburg, Germany, and Dan Lucas from Oregon, I told Helga the story of my near-miss over three decades ago and asked her, 35 years later, how one would say, "Good morning, gentlemen" and "Good-bye, gentlemen" in German. Helga laughed and spelled out "Guten morgen, meine herren" and "Auf wiedersehen, meine herren" and I thanked her for the delayed lesson. But Helga asked, "What would you have done between 'good morning' and 'good-bye'?" I told her that I would have smiled a lot and nodded even more.

Being multilingual has its advantages.

Ev Parker can be reached at evjenpar@mailbug.com or 224-9956.