by Endre Farkas
“Sí.”
“Hi,” she said. He hadn’t seen her come out from her room. Marianne was standing by the upstairs railing of the split-level. He thought of Juliet on the balcony. She was wearing the same blouse he had unbuttoned but instead of her dress, she was wearing jeans. He wanted to tell her she looked great, but her eyes stopped him.
“Hey, can you give me a lift to the bus?”
Her mother turned serious. “Where are you going?”
“To Naomi’s. She’s got some new albums we’re going to listen to.”
“You have to work tomorrow. Don’t be too late. Understand?”
“Sí, Mama!”
She slipped in the back seat behind him. Tommy was nervous. The car jerked as he let the clutch out too soon and stalled.
“Amateur.” Speedy punched him on the arm. “You smell funny, like her,” Speedy said, sniffing Tommy.
“Huh?”
“That’s not Old Spice.”
“Yeah.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Marianne was smiling. “Do you want me to give you a lift to Naomi’s?”
Her smile disappeared. “No, it’s out of the way.”
“Nah, it’s not.”
“How do you know?” Speedy asked.
Tommy panicked but recovered. “Didn’t you say she lived near the campus?” He glanced nervously into the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah,” she said. He didn’t like the look in her eyes.
“I’d like to see where she lives,” Speedy said.
“It’s okay, guys. Just drop me off at the bus stop.” She sounded angry.
“No, we’ll take you. Wolfie offered, so it’s okay, eh, amigo?”
“Sure,” Tommy said quietly.
Marianne slammed the door shut. “See you later,” Tommy said but she was already on the other side, entering the building.
“What’s her problem? She got a ride,” Speedy said. “Now let’s go and get Schmutz. So, what’s the crazy news you got?”
Tommy switched on the radio. He didn’t feel like talking just now. He needed time to think about what just happened. “I want you and Schmutz to hear it at the same time.”
They settled into their corner table and Jesus brought them their wine. “No shit! Really?” Schmutz said when Tommy shared the news.
“I was always Puskás and he was Grosics.”
“Those guys were so good.”
“Yeah, the best in the world. World and Olympic champions. When they defected during the revolution in ’56 and Puskás stayed behind in Spain, I was devastated.”
“How come your cousin didn’t escape?”
“They tried. Twice. Gabi and I are cousins, but we were more like brothers. Right after the war, his parents got arrested trying to escape. He was just a baby, so he stayed with us while his parents were in jail. When they got out, they moved in with us and we lived in the same house until we escaped. We played soccer every chance we got. And my father, who was the manager of the local team, would take us to practices. The coach, I forget his name, trained us. I remember jogging, like a mile behind the players around the track and learning tricks.”
“How come they got caught and you guys didn’t?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time,” Schmutz said.
“Sí. You’re not going anywhere else tonight, eh, amigo?”
He picked up an edge in Speedy’s voice. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell his parents. He wanted to tell everyone. But what was there to tell? That he and Marianne had had sex? No way! That they were going steady? He wasn’t sure of that.
“Wolfie?” Schmutz waved his palm in front of Tommy’s face. “Hello.”
“Oh, no, just hanging out with the Mouseketeers,” he joked.
“How come they got caught and you guys didn’t?”
“Oh. Well, the train we were on, heading towards the border, was stopped by the secret police. They asked for everybody’s identity papers. Those who didn’t have the right ones, meaning bribe money, were ordered off. We didn’t have the right papers, so we had to get off, but Gabi’s father, who didn’t want to go to jail again, punched one of the policemen and the whole packed train went crazy. The secret police ganged up on him and dragged him, Gabi and his mother off the train and in the chaos forgot about us.”
“Wow! That’s heavy shit,” Schmutz said, meticulously peeling the label off the wine bottle.
“It’s going to be strange playing against your cousin, eh?”
“Yeah. He was good then. He must be amazing now.”
“How do you think we’ll do?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. They’re probably more skilled. It’s like, imagine if their best came here to play hockey against our best.”
“They’d get massacred.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“But we’ve got hustle.”
Speedy lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to hustle,” he said. They clinked glasses.
“We’ll start by beating Hungaria and then Hungary,” Schmutz said.
“Yeah,” Tommy said. He tuned out a lot of their bantering trying to figure out what he should do. “I gotta go.”
Speedy put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s early.”
“My mother freaks out when I’m a minute late. I have to be up at six. You want a lift?”
“No. I’ll get one with my uncle.”
“And you, Schmutz?”
“I’ll go with Speedy. There are a couple more glasses of wine asking for me.”
“Okay. See you.”
“Adios, amigo.”
“You smell funny,” Schmutz said as Tommy rose and headed for the door.
He sat in the car, wondering if he should go to Naomi’s. He turned the key, revved the engine and peeled out. He got to Naomi’s in ten minutes.
He stood in front of the door, unsure if he should ring or not.
“Hi,” Naomi said.
Marianne was sitting on the couch, her feet tucked under her. She had a glass of wine in her hands and was listening to the music. Tommy smelled sandalwood and grass.
“Why’d you do that?” Marianne snarled.
“I was trying to be nice.”
“You shouldn’t be nice. You should learn to listen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t I tell you that I wanted to keep this part of my life mine?” Her eyes bored through him.
“Are you ever going to tell them?”
“About us?”
“No. Yeah, I mean wanting to lead your own life.”
“No. Not yet…” She put down her glass. “I better get going.”
“Do you want a lift?”
Marianne turned towards him as she gathered her things. “Boy, for a smart guy you can be pretty stupid.”
23
Tommy loved playing under the lights. The field and the players had a glow about them. All attention was focused there. Only the action under the lights mattered. Everything else was insignificant.
Jarry Park was the only field dedicated to soccer that had lights. It was Tommy’s Golden Green. The pitch was without bare patches and the grass was evenly trimmed. The corner arcs, penalty and goalie area lines weren’t sloppy afterthoughts. The nets were permanent, with curved back supports that gave them a feeling of depth. A goal scored in those had meaning. The park had a P.A. system through which lineups and goals were broadcast. It even had a little press booth at the top of the bleachers where the Montreal Gazette, Montreal Star reporters and Mr. Papp of The Hungarian News sat. In this park, soccer was the most important game.
As he did his pregame stretches on the soft manicured grass of Jarry Park, Tommy searched the stands for his father He was always the first of the fathers to show up. He was usually near the blea
chers pacing back and forth. He wasn’t there. It wasn’t like him to miss a game.
Hungaria scored first. Ivan was late getting to Hungaria’s left winger, who had streaked down the side and had a free run to make a beautiful pass to their centre half, who snuck into the penalty area and blasted a shot past Derek into the left, low corner.
Schmutz got that one back with his own blast that nearly tore through the back of the net before the half ended.
Tommy still couldn’t see his father on the sideline. He felt uneasy.
“Hui! Hui! Hui!” Ivan was cursing himself as he walked off the field.
“It’s okay,” Schmutz said, patting him on the back.
“Time to shit or get in the pot,” Ivan said and slapped himself in the face.
Archie tapped Tommy on the head. “Hey, man, what’s up? Three times you missed me with your passes. Is it too dark to see me? Am I too black for you? Next time, I’ll smile.” He flashed a toothy grin. His teeth were brilliant white, glowing against his rich pink lips and black skin. Tommy laughed.
“Sorry, man. Keep smiling and I’ll find you.” He wondered where his father was.
“Okay, we’re good,” Coach Hustle said, clapping his hands. “Just keep up the pace. And remember, vary the game.”
The second half started slow, with both sides almost walking the game. Horvath was his shadow and he didn’t miss any opportunity to step on Tommy’s toes or try to knee him in the thigh. He chattered in Hungarian, trying to distract him. Tommy was getting fed up. He jogged past Speedy and told him to pull a pick next time they crossed.
Lou had the ball. “Now!” Tommy shouted at Speedy. Speedy came charging across and suddenly stopped behind Horvath. Tommy took off. Horvath backed up to follow but Speedy trapped him. Lou laid a perfect lead pass onto Tommy’s right foot. He had a clear run but slowed as he heard Horvath cutting across at full gallop.
“I’ll break your fucking ankles into pieces,” Horvath yelled at him in Hungarian.
Tommy was seven and the school bully and his gang had taken over their pickup game. They played rough and dirty. They shoved, elbowed and deliberately stepped on their feet. Frog had the ball at midfield. Just before getting knocked over, he passed the ball to Carrot, who sent a lead pass to Tommy. He took it on his instep and dribbled over to the right side. The bully kept charging.
“Jew! Jew! Jews eat dirt!” he shouted as he galloped after Tommy.
“You can do it. You can do it,” Tommy repeated to himself. He saw the bully’s glowing eyes, his wide grin and big teeth. Tommy spread his arms, leaned back and slipped his foot under the ball. He kicked it as hard as he could. The bully rose onto his toes. His eyes widened and a high-pitched yelp escaped from his gaping mouth. He was as stiff as a statue. Then, in one motion, his knees buckled, his hands grasped his groin, and he fell face down onto the ground with a thud. The players gathered around him.
After what seemed like forever, Horvath slowly rolled over onto his back. He lay there, hand at his groin, eyes and mouth wide open, desperately trying to breathe. A loud sob escaped from his mouth. Tommy bent over him.
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy said. He reached down to help Horvath up. Horvath offered his hand. Tommy grabbed two of his fingers, squeezed really tight and bent them back a bit. Horvath tried to scream but had no breath. “I’m so sorry,” Tommy said again.
Horvath was helped off the field. He was laid down on the sideline on his back while the trainer slowly pumped his legs to get some air into him.
Speedy trotted by. “Hey, amigo. That was a terrible pass.” He winked.
“He’s gonna have black balls for at least a week,” Schmutz said.
Hungaria’s dirty game picked up. They wanted Tommy but couldn’t goad him into a fight that would get him ejected. The Knights kept them penned in their own zone. Tommy was racing toward a loose ball inside Hungaria’s penalty zone, and so was their goalie. With his back blocking the ref’s view, Tommy grabbed the goalie’s arm and yanked. To maintain his balance the goalie swung out his other arm and grabbed Tommy’s jersey and hauled him down. Tommy yelled as he went rolling. The whistle blew and the referee pointed to the penalty spot. The goalie was screaming at the referee, telling him what really happened. The referee flashed a yellow card at the goalie. Tommy got up slowly, holding his ribs. He was bent over. He looked up at the goalie, who was cursing him in Hungarian, and winked.
The players lined up around the eighteen-yard marker. Tommy, who usually took the penalty shots, walked over to Ivan and said. “Hey, hui. Shit or get in the pot.”
Ivan grabbed Tommy’s face and kissed him on the lips. “My balls in your net,” Ivan shouted and blasted it into the corner.
The Knights won.
“What’s up?” Coach Hus asked as Tommy ran past him as soon as the handshakes were done.
“Gotta go,” said Tommy. He dressed as fast as he could and was out the door. He found a phone booth near the bus stop and called home.
Usually it was his father who answered the phone when Tommy wasn’t around but it was his mother. “Where is Apu? He wasn’t at the game. Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” she answered, her voice shaking. He’s at the synagogue. Israel was attacked.”
24
The whole family was glued to the television. His mother cursed the world that was abandoning Jews once again. “When are we going to learn that Jews can only depend on Jews?” she said to the TV. But Tommy knew that she was talking to him.
Usually Tommy and his parents went to the synagogue only during the High Holidays. Only the very devout went in the morning. But since the attack, he and his father went every morning before work. It was packed. For his family and other immigrant Jews, the synagogue wasn’t only a place of worship, it was a haven. It was where he and his parents had sought refuge in Budapest, before they escaped. It was also where news, business deals, gossip, worries and jokes were shared. Here, among your own kind, you could feel safe.
For survivors, Israel was not just a country but a precious symbol of hope. Next year in Jerusalem was how each Passover service ended. Israel was their Phoenix rising from their mothers’, fathers’, sisters’, brothers’, uncles’, aunts’, cousins’, grandparents’ and friends’ ashes. Most of the synagogue members were survivors who were certain that Israel’s defeat would not be just the loss of a war but the end of a people.
Tommy’s blue velvet tallit and tefillin bag with a golden-threaded Star of David felt alien in his hand. He stroked it before taking out the tefillin. It was soft. His parents had given it to him for his Bar Mitzvah. All Jewish boys got one on the occasion of becoming a man. From that day on, he was supposed to go to synagogue every morning before sunrise and put on the tefillin. He hadn’t put them on since his Bar Mitzvah. He took out the two small leather boxes wrapped in their leather straps and laid them on the bench. He had forgotten how to put them on and in what order.
His father’s instructions and explanations always came with a story. As a child he used to love those stories. But that was a long time ago and the long, hard hours of work in Canada left his father with little energy for stories. They were now reserved for the big holidays. Tommy felt he was too old and too Canadian for them. But this recent attack brought back the need for stories in his father.
“You have a brain. It is in one world. Your heart is in another. And your hands are in a third. The tefillin brings them together. These,” he said, pointing to the two leather boxes, which resembled small square top hats, “have little parchments about God and our Exodus from Egypt in them. They’re in there so we remember His miracles and the wonders He performed for us.”
His father rolled up his left shirtsleeve. Tommy had seen the numbers many times before; they seemed like a natural part of his father’s arm. But today it felt like he was seeing them for the first time.
“You put this one on first
.” His father demonstrated on his own arm. “It has to have contact with the skin. Make sure you put it on your left arm.”
Tommy started to ask why, but his father shushed him. “Don’t talk. Just concentrate on connecting your mind, heart and deeds, and binding them to God.” In his youth, his father had attended the yeshiva. He had wanted to be a rabbi but the war had come along.
“Good. Now slip your arm through the loop and place the box up on your bicep, right across from your heart. And now we say ‘Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to put on tefillin.’”
“Now tighten the strap around your arm. Make sure that the knot stays in contact with the box. Wrap two more times over this little brim and seven times around your arm and once around your palm.”
Each time his father wrapped the strap around his arm more of the numbers disappeared, but never completely.
“Leave the rest of the strap loose. Next, take the other tefillin and put it on your head. The box goes just above your forehead. Centre it in the middle of your head right between your eyes. The knot of the noose should rest on the back of your neck. Good. Now wrap the remainder of the arm strap three times around your middle finger, like this: once around the base, then once just above the first joint, then one more time around the base. And the rest of the strap you wrap around your palm and tuck in the tail like this.”
He went on to explain how putting the tefillin on the arm next to the heart, and on the head over the brain gives the soul, desires and thoughts of the heart to God. “Remember that putting on the tefillin is a mitzvah.”
Tommy and his father put on their prayer shawls. Tommy’s was a small one that covered only his shoulders. His father’s was floor-length. Tommy remembered seeing his father wearing the tallit in that big synagogue in Budapest. He was praying, rocking back and forth, then turned and strode toward him, his tallit billowing like a cape. He looked like a noble knight. That’s when Tommy’s mother told him that he and his father were Cohens, Jewish warrior-priests.
