by Endre Farkas
“Please sit.” His father smiled admiringly at his wife. “Isn’t she a beautiful queen of our home?” “This is how we start the Passover.” He was teary eyed. He cleared his throat. “Now we wash hands.” He rose. “Only the boys come with me, please.” He signalled Marianne to stay seated. Tommy felt awkward leading the boys to the toilet.
As they crowded into the small bathroom Schmutz tapped Speedy on the shoulder in an effeminate way. “I hardly know you,” he said. Speedy punched him on the arm.
“Like this,” his father said and filled a cup and poured twice on his right hand and twice on the left. “Make sure that the water washes the hands all the way to the wrist. Make sure you separate the fingers to let the water in between them. Fill your hands with water and God will fill them with His goodness.” Though not very educated, Tommy’s father knew the rituals and prayers by heart and could quote venerable rabbis.
“After washing the hands, lift them this high,” he said, raising them to his chest. He recited a prayer, dried his hands and led them back to the table.
His aunt was telling Marianne what kind of food she served at her restaurant and complaining about waitresses. Tommy was glad that she wasn’t telling her dirty jokes picked up from her customers.
“Now we bless the wine and drink it as we lean to the left.”
“Why do you lean to the left?” Speedy asked.
“Tradition,” Tommy and his father said simultaneously.
“Maybe it’s where the heart is,” Marianne said.
Tommy smiled at her.
“Now, do you see that plate?” His father pointed to the Seder plate. “That’s a special plate. Each piece of food on it is special. I will tell you.”
“We will die of hunger before he’s finished,” his aunt interrupted. She always said this at every Seder. And of course, as part of this ritual, his father got upset that his sister wouldn’t let him savour the spotlight. Maybe it was natural for brothers and sisters to act this way. Being an only child, Tommy didn’t know. He looked at Speedy and Marianne and wondered about their relationship.
His father’s English explanation was clunky. He sounded like a child learning to speak. It embarrassed Tommy.
“The horseradish that clean your nose and make us cry remind us the time when we are slaves in Egypt. The apples, walnut and cinnamon mixed up in red wine remind us of the glue the slaves use to build their bosses’ houses.”
“It’s not glue. It’s mortar,” Tommy corrected him.
“Yes, it is what my university son said,” his father smiled proudly. “The putting a piece of boiled potato in salty water is for the crying of being slaves.”
His father always linked the bondage in Egypt to their concentration camp experiences. Most of Tommy’s father’s and mother’s families were murdered in the death camps. This was the moment of tears and bitterness that made the Passover real for his family. But when his father launched into one of his camp experiences his mother interrupted. “That story is for another time. The soup will get cold.”
His father glared at his mother, who stared back, tightlipped.
“The lamb bone,” he said pointing to a skinny piece of meat, “remind us of the sacrifice of the sheep in the synagogue.”
“Is that a Jewish lamb bone?” Schmutz asked, puzzled.
“No.” Tommy laughed. “That’s a chicken neck. It’s our family’s tradition.”
“Huh?”
“Now, for sure, we’re never going to eat,” Tommy’s aunt remarked and lifted her head to the ceiling in exasperation.
“Margit,” his father snapped.
“I’m just saying.”
“Tradition,” his father continued, “say lamb bones, but my family in Hungary was very poor. Sheep was only for the rich and a chicken neck was all we could afford, so it became our tradition.”
Tommy loved watching and hearing his father exaggerate the sucking of the marrow from the neck. His loud long slurps, which irritated his mother, made Tommy laugh. Her reprimands made him suck louder. This had also become part of their Passover ritual. Tommy hoped tonight would be different. He hoped that his father would skip that part because he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of Marianne. His father’s slurping would make them look like peasant immigrants. Yes, Speedy and his family were immigrants too, but they had seemed so worldly by comparison.
“Hurry up. This taking longer than Moses leading the Jews across the desert. The Ten Commandos is my favourite film,” Margit explained to Marianne.
“We will talk later,” his father snapped at Margit. “This is Seder night. The boiled egg, sitting there like a pasha, means life. And the breaking of the matzo, this big flat bread, remind us the Jewish people escape from Egypt.”
Usually at this part his father went into his recollections of their perilous escape from Hungary. His father glanced at his mother, who was staring at her prayer book.
“Escape is the story of Passover. It is the story of going to freedom. It is why we are in Canada, very happy. It is why we do the celebration and tell the stories, so we don’t forget. It is why the celebration takes a long time because we come a long way.”
Maybe because of his friends and partly to frustrate his aunt, Tommy’s father made a bigger show of the ritual than usual. His answers to the four questions were elaborate, the pinky-dipping in the wine ten times slower and grander. He sang the prayers instead of just reading them. Marianne, eyes closed, head moving just the slightest, seemed enchanted by the mournful notes.
“Now, we eat,” his father said after the last prayer.
“Amen and Thank God,” his aunt said and clapped her hands together.
Marianne offered to help bring out the food. Tommy’s mother didn’t like anyone in her kitchen. “Thank you, dear, but everything is ready,” she said.
Marianne insisted on serving. “Sometimes I waitress at my uncle’s restaurant.”
“I do that at my aunt’s,” Tommy said, glad that they had something in common.
“Thank you, dear, you are very nice,” his mother said as she reluctantly led Marianne into the kitchen. “Men are not for cooking. They’re only good for eating,” he heard his mother say.
Marianne laughed loudly. “Yes.”
Though the meal was a success, the boys asked for seconds and Marianne complimented his mother’s cooking and asked about the ingredients, Tommy was tense. He watched his mother watching Marianne.
Marianne had high-class table manners. She sat straight and brought the spoon to her mouth instead of her head to the bowl as his family did. She made no slurping sounds; she cut the veal into bite-size morsels and dabbed her mouth delicately. She even extended her pinky when she held her coffee cup.
At dessert, his mother began the interrogation. “So, you go to school?”
“No, I work at the Jewish General Hospital. That’s where I learned a lot about Jewish traditions.”
“So, you are a nurse?”
“No, I’m a lab technician. I take blood from people and check it in the laboratory.”
Tommy could see that his mother was impressed.
“My sister is a dangerous person with a needle,” Speedy joked.
“Do you have a boyfriend? A nice Spanish boy?” his mother continued.
“Anyu,” Tommy interrupted, though he too was curious.
“No. I am not in a hurry.”
“That’s a good idea, you should not be serious yet. You are too young. How old are you?”
“I am older than these babies,” Marianne said, glancing at Tommy.
“She’s two years older than me,” Speedy said.
“She’s an old maid,” Schmutz said, biting into his second helping of sponge cake.
“This wine tastes like grape juice,” Speedy grimaced.
“Jewish sangria,” Tommy said.<
br />
“No way, José.”
“Okay, boys, clear the table,” Marianne said when they were done.
“No, dear,” Tommy’s mother said. “That is for the women.”
“No, Hannah,” Marianne said firmly. Marianne calling his mother Hannah surprised Tommy more than her contradicting her. “If they can clear the plate of food, then they can clear the table of plates.”
Tommy snuck a look at his mother. She was smiling at Marianne, but her eyes weren’t.
“Did I mention that my sister is also bossy?”
The boys stood and took the plates and trays into the kitchen.
“Just leave them on the kitchen table. I know how to wash them best,” his mother shouted after them.
While his mother washed and Marianne and his aunt dried, Tommy’s father and the boys sat in the living room and talked soccer. Tommy strained to listen to what the women were talking about, but between the loud soccer talk and the running water, he couldn’t hear anything. At one point there was a sudden burst of laughter. Marianne’s was the loudest.
9
“Telephone!” his mother yelled.
Tommy crawled out of bed and went to the kitchen, where his mother was busy making stuffed cabbage.
“Hi, Speedy. What’s up?”
“Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Coach Hustle called me and wants to meet with us.”
“School’s over. What does he want?” Tommy slid down to the floor and sat with his back against the wall.
“I don’t know. Except he said it was important and wanted to talk to both of us.”
“When?”
“One thirty in his office. Can you make it?”
“I start work tomorrow but I can probably get time off.”
“Nice to have your parents as your boss. Eh?”
“Sure,” he exaggerated. “I wonder what the big secret is?”
“I don’t know.”
Tommy turned to the wall and lowered his voice. “Is Marianne there?” He hadn’t spoken with her since the Seder a week ago. He had wanted to ask her out but still couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“No. She’s out. What do you want with her?” Speedy suddenly sounded hard.
“I just want to ask her something.”
“What?”
“Something.”
“What? “
“None of your business,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted while he tried to think of something quick.
“My sister is my business.”
“Okay, don’t get so uptight. It’s not important. I just wanted to ask her something about flamenco dance. My mother was curious. I’ll see you at Coach Hustle’s office.”
Tommy was surprised at Speedy’s reaction. And though he’d forgotten to ask Marianne why she didn’t want him to tell Speedy about the party, he suspected that it was because of the marijuana. But after hearing his reaction he wasn’t sure about that. What he was pretty sure about was that it was good not to say anything to Speedy. He didn’t want to cause any trouble for Marianne or piss Speedy off.
Tommy inhaled deeply. “Smells good,” he said as he headed back to bed. This was his last lazy Sunday before he began a summer of factory work. He stared at the ceiling and wondered what the coach wanted but his attention drifted to trying to figure out a way to speak to Marianne. Maybe he could ask Naomi to get her to call him. But he didn’t have Naomi’s number or last name. Maybe he would drop by after the meeting.
Tommy had never been to Coach Hus’s office, which was a small windowless room in the basement of the athletic complex. His real office was the dressing room and his classroom was the soccer pitch. When he had anything to say to the team, he said it there. “Sit down,” he said, waving Tommy in. Speedy was already there.
Coach Hus’s office was neat and bare. Only three pictures hung on the wall behind his desk: one of him in his graduation gown next to his parents, one with his wife and child, and this year’s team picture. Tommy glanced at the coach’s bookcase and was surprised to see, next to Teaching Soccer Fundamentals, The Complete Book of Coaching Soccer and Sports Illustrated magazines, books, including Interpretation of Dreams, Man’s Search for Meaning, Man and his Symbols, The Prince, Zen and the Art of Archery, All Quiet on the Western Front and Catch-22.
“How you guys doing?” the coach asked and leaned back in his chair. He drew on his pipe and let out a puff of smoke. Tommy had never seen him smoke. In fact, he discouraged the boys from smoking. He was always after Ivan, who was a heavy smoker, to quit.
“Good, good,” they replied in unison.
“Any plans for the summer?”
“Work,” Tommy answered.
“Any luck?”
“I’m gonna work at my uncle’s restaurant,” Speedy said.
“I’m working at my parents’ factory.”
“Are you guys planning to play this summer?”
“For sure. I got a call from Spania.”
“Hungaria asked me.”
“We’ll beat the crap outta you guys,” Speedy joked and punched Tommy in the arm.
“In your dreams.”
Coach Hus emptied his pipe and put it in his tobacco pouch. “Yeah, the league is busy grabbing the boys from the team. I heard Kostas got a call from Hellanica and Lou is going to play for Italia. There’s no Danish team, so Schmutz said he’ll try out for the Rangers.”
“Yeah, Coach, that’s what happens when you’re Canadian champions,” Speedy said. “Now if they would only pay professional salaries.”
Coach Hus grew serious. “I know they pay under the table, but don’t you guys dare take a cent. If you get caught you won’t be allowed to play college ball ever again. And you still have two years eligibility.”
“It’s not a lot, Coach.”
“Don’t you dare!” He slammed a palm on the desk.
“Okay, Coach,” both replied at once. Tommy was taken aback by how serious he had become.
“You guys are the leaders and have a responsibility to the team. Understand?”
The boys nodded. He leaned back again. “I believe in the purity of the amateur, one who plays for the love of the game. But that’s not what I called you boys in here for. I have another reason.”
“What’s up, Coach?” Tommy asked.
“Well, you know it’s Expo this year, Canada’s 100th birthday.”
“For sure, party time, chicas from all over the world,” Speedy said.
“I’ve got a passport,” Tommy said. “I’m going to go to Expo as often as I can.”
“Well, you’re going to need another passport now.”
“What do you mean, Coach?”
“As you know, special things are being planned for the year, including sports events. All sorts of teams are coming here, and all sorts of Canadian teams are going to different parts of the world in exchange programs. Our team just got an invitation to play two friendly games against the university champions of Hungary.”
“Wow! Really? Are you kidding, Coach? When?”
“Late August, just before school starts. The date hasn’t been set.”
Speedy slapped him on the back. “Hey, Wolfie, you immigrant, you’re gonna go home!”
“Hey, easy,” Tommy said.
“Great, eh?”
“Amazing.” Much of what he remembered of his few years in Hungary revolved around soccer: he and his father listening to Sunday games, cheering Puskás, the best player in the world; he and his father going to see his town’s team play, practising with them, the coach and star player teaching him moves, sneaking out of Jewish school to play. And, his cousin Gabi. He and Gabi and Frog, his best friend, playing every chance they got. Tommy and Gabi had dreamed about playing for Hungary’s national team. Gabi was going to be the best goalie in the world and Tommy was going to b
e the next Puskás.
“Amazing,” he repeated under his breath.
“But before the university accepts, they want to be sure that the players are available. And before I start calling the others, I wanted to know about you guys. It would mean practice at least twice a week for the next couple of months.”
“For sure, Coach. For sure.” Speedy said.
“And you, Tommy?”
“I don’t know if I can afford the trip, Coach. I can’t ask my parents for the money.”
“No problem. The Hungarian government offered a free trip through their airline and will provide accommodations and daily meals and the Alumni will give you a daily allowance for the two weeks.”
“Unbelievable,” Tommy said.
He left the meeting in a daze. He hadn’t really thought about Hungary in years. His parents kept in touch with the relatives back in Békes, Szabad and Debrecen, but for him, these had become alien places with strange names. They were vague memories. The letters his parents got from his mother’s sister, Aunt Magda, gave them news of his grandfather and the ones from Emma-mama informed them about the goings-on in his home town of Békes and of Gabi’s progress in school. Occasionally, Gabi wrote a few lines and Tommy added a few lines to his parents’ letters, but they meant less and less. Time, distance and his inability to read and write Hungarian broke his connection with Hungary and Gabi. The Hungarian he spoke at home he called Hunglish, a goulash of Hungarian and English. And though Tommy thought of Gabi occasionally, he was too busy becoming Canadian to really care. Though he loved to play soccer, his favourite sport to watch was hockey now. He was a fanatic Habs fan. They were fantastic. They won the Stanley Cup almost every year. He could recite every player’s name and number. He didn’t follow soccer and couldn’t name a single current Hungarian national player. Puskás and Grosics were from another time, from a long, long, long time ago. And he, like the team, had left Hungary behind in ’56.
