My mother used that expression often. Too often.
It was her standard reply to all sorts of everyday requests, To me, it always sounded dramatic and absurd. But to her, it was gospel.
I tried every trick to get a "yes" from her. Sometimes I pleaded. Sometimes I tried to wear her down with repetition. Other times I asked sweetly, calmly, like a model child. Occasionally, I’d toss out the request in a nonchalant tone, as if it didn’t matter either way. But it always seemed to come down to that same phrase.
Her eyes would narrow just slightly. “You never know who is a spy.”
“Can I go to my girlfriend’s house after school?”
Our school hosted an annual Fun Fair—games, prizes, cotton candy, a raffle table stocked by enthusiastic parents. Teachers encouraged everyone to come. Some kids even sold tickets door-to-door like little entrepreneurs.
She shook her head. "You never know who is a spy."
I remember Halloween one year. I spent a whole week designing my costume - a robot. It was built it from a large cardboard box covered in aluminum foil, and with knobs made from old soup can lids. I was so proud of my costume. But the minute I told her that I was planning to go trick-or-treating, she looked at me like I’d asked for permission to parachute into enemy territory.
“Are you kidding me? After dark, no less? You never know who is a spy!”
That phrase wasn’t always a flat-out no. Sometimes she allowed things, but the warning still came bundled with the permission.
“Yes, you can go. But be careful. You never know who is a spy.”
My brother and I tried to reason with her, time and again. “The world’s not that dangerous,” we’d say. “You can’t go through life being afraid of everyone. It’s not a good way to live.”
She’d listen. Sometimes she’d even nod. But her attitude never really changed. She just got quieter about it. We didn’t hear the words as often, but we still felt them - like background music playing on low volume. Even though we argued, it affected us.
Don’t trust anyone. That was her mantra. That was how she lived. At the time, that constant caution only served to frustrate us. It was only much later, as an adult reading history and seeing the world through a different lens, that I understood.
Her deep-seated fear was not abstract. She wasn't fearful of the world in general; she was fearful of a very specific, devastating past that had etched itself onto her psyche. Understanding post-war parental trauma means realizing that for some survivors, the war is never truly over—it simply changes battlefields, migrating from the trenches to the kitchen table.
My mother had been through war. Real war. Not the abstract kind you read about in textbooks. She had seen it up close and from the inside. During World War II, she was more than just a survivor—she was a fighter. A resistance worker. A courier. She was a young woman who risked her life carrying secret messages and supplies right under the eyes of armed soldiers.
She operated in a world where betrayal was sickeningly common, where neighbors could vanish overnight, and where the wrong word to the wrong person could get you - and everyone you loved - killed.
She didn't just worry about spies; she knew them. She had met them, evaded them, outwitted them, and watched them operate.
She knew, in a way my brother and I never could, how ordinary someone could seem right up until the moment they weren't.
Her caution wasn't paranoia. It was muscle memory. It was the indelible script written by years spent operating in a world where constant vigilance was the only guarantee of survival. She tried to teach me to look twice, to speak carefully, and never to underestimate the danger lurking behind a friendly face. And like it or not, that deep, ingrained memory lives on in me. That phrase, "You never know who is a spy," is no longer absurd or frustrating; it is a profound inheritance.
What do you say when you’re parting company with someone? Think about it. Do you say Goodbye? Take care? See you soon? Drive safe? I have my own phrase, one that my kids know well. I say it when we’re saying goodbye after a visit. I say it when they tell me they’re going on a trip, even if it’s just for a weekend.
“Watch out for crazies.”
That’s what I tell them, every time. I smile when I say it. I keep my voice light. But inside, I’m bracing just a little. Holding my breath. Hoping that the world stays gentle to them.
To be fair, I also add something my mother never did. “Have a good time,” I say. “Have fun.” So it becomes a strange little hybrid: “Have a good time - and watch out for crazies.” My kids roll their eyes sometimes. But I see them smile, too. And they always respond with some version of “I will,” or “Love you too, Mom.”
I realize I’m not so different from my mother after all. I’ve just updated the language. Is it the same as “You never know who is a spy”? I think it might be. It’s the same instinct, wrapped in different paper. The world changes, but a mother’s worry doesn’t. We all want our children to be safe. Some of us just say it more bluntly than others. My experience growing up with a WWII survivor has left me with this ultimate understanding.