Mother stayed in a bad mood for days, did not say silly things to make us laugh or sing, but only spoke to us when she had something to tell us. We stopped turning on the radio because they had suspended newscasts, playing only sermons and Christmas carols. Mother tried to go through the rituals of Hanukkah and lit the candles the first few nights, giving us the customary treats. But, without Father, we could not sing the traditional songs and we gave up lighting the candles and playing dreidel games before the holiday was over.
Milush and Vali came by early on Christmas Eve and entered our kitchen flushed with excitement over their holiday. “We came to call for you. The carolers are down the street.”
Iboya and I looked toward Mother, but she shook her head no.
“We can’t go this year,” Iboya started to explain as Milush and Vali looked at each other. “It is because our father is away…” They did not wait for Iboya to finish but turned around and left without saying another word. I waited, hoping that the carolers would stop in as they had in years before and ask, “May we praise Jesus?” Mother had let them sing and then gave them small pastries to eat. But they did not stop at our house, and remembering those other Christmases and how much a part of the festivities we had been, I felt sad.
* * *
I began to pay more attention to Joli as the winter went on and the children played in the kitchen. She grew bigger, more animated, more curious about Sandor and Manci as she watched them. In my arms, she smelled of soap, baby powder, and mother’s milk and felt like white velvet. In these moments I recalled the scornful expression on Babi’s face as she said, “A new baby in these times! Tsu! Tsu!” When I told Mother that Babi did not think that having a baby in wartime was a good idea, Mother grew thoughtful before she answered, “God works in strange ways. I think Joli was just what we needed!”
“Mother,” I continued, “do you believe in the same God that Babi does?”
“There is only one God. Your grandmother just believes more than most of us.”
“Do you believe that if you tear something on the Sabbath, God will strike you? I tried it out, and He didn’t do anything.”
Mother tried to pretend that she was angry, but I could see the smile in her green eyes. “You tested God? I’m beginning to understand Babi’s concern about you. What else have you done to test God?”
Seeing that she wasn’t very upset, I told her that once, in Komjaty, while the Sabbath candles were being lit, I stood outside, picked some grapes, ate them, and waited to see what would happen to me, thinking that perhaps the whole trellis would fall down and kill me instantly. Instead, Rozsi had come out to get me and asked why I had jumped when she came up behind me. When I told her what I’d done, she explained that God was too busy to be bothered by every little thing I did, but that didn’t mean He didn’t see every little thing. And, she added, if the trellis had fallen, she and Babi would have been hurt and they were innocent.
“Did you ever let my mother know this?”
“No, just Rozsi.”
Lilli opened the kitchen door just then, letting in a strong gust of wind. She had a newspaper tucked under her arm, and I thought she had probably also bought some cigarettes in the tobacco shop. I had seen her smoking a few times while she walked outside the house and I wondered if Mother knew. Lilli took off her coat and shook the snow from it before hanging it on the hook.
“You want me to read you the front page while you stir the soup?” she asked Mother.
“No, I’ll look at it later,” said Mother. “Why don’t you set the table, Piri, while Lilli washes the children’s hands. And call Iboya from the other room.” I knew that all discussions for that evening were ended.
* * *
One day, instead of coming straight home from school, Iboya and I stopped in at Farkas & Földes to get some notebooks and look through the new rental books. It was already dusk by the time we got to Tinodi Street. From the street lights high up on their poles, yellow beams lit our way. The snow crunched under our boots as we walked, and becoming aware of the time, we walked faster, fearing Mother’s anger at our being out so late. We had reached the little synagogue on the other side of Tinodi Street when we heard loud shouting and saw several old men, prayer shawls still over their shoulders, running from the courtyard into the street. Three boys were among the men with sticks in their hands.
“Stop,” I screamed, “or I’ll get the police.”
Seeing us directly across the street from the synagogue, they yelled, “There are two of those Jew girls,” and then came toward us. We started to run as fast as we could. Our schoolbags smacked against our backs, and we could hear the boys gaining on us.
“Dumb Jew bitches, we’ll pound your asses, you won’t get away. Get the one with the pigtails, the one who yelled she would call the police.” They mimicked my voice. “What police is she going to tell? As if they cared about our beating up some old Jews.”
Just then two men stepped out of the shadows at the corner. “Hey,” called one of the men to the boys, “aren’t you ashamed of yourselves, chasing after two little girls?” They walked into the street, putting themselves between us and the three boys, but Iboya and I kept running, not even looking back to see how they stopped the boys. We did not turn around until we reached our front gate—four blocks from Tinodi Street—and by then we could not see them. Bolting the gate after us, we ran into the kitchen.
Mother was sitting in the armchair nursing Joli while sounds of music came from the salon. As we slammed the door behind us, she looked up with a start and put her breast back inside her blouse. Her eyes asked the question “What happened?” even before she spoke.
While Iboya and I leaned against the kitchen door panting, Mother went to the bedroom and put Joli down in the crib. Then, buttoning her blouse as she walked back toward us, she asked, “Why are you so out of breath?”
Iboya spoke first. “There were three boys, they came out of the synagogue on Tinodi Street and chased us with sticks until two men stepped out from the corner courtyard where the Markowitzes live and came between us. One of them yelled at the boys.”
“Then what happened?” Mother interrupted.
“We don’t know. Iboya and I just kept running until we got here,” I answered.
“Who were they? Why were they running out of the synagogue holding sticks?”
“I don’t know if they came from inside the synagogue; we just saw them running from the courtyard. I also heard glass breaking, maybe it was the windows. It was dark already and we were across the street. I think I recognized one of them—Imre Kurti.” Iboya stopped talking and slowly sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.
“Shut off the radio,” Mother called harshly into the salon. Lilli obeyed instantly and ran into the kitchen. She looked us up and down, then came over and slid my schoolbag off my shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly. Mother came close to Lilli and whispered, “Vandalism at the synagogue. God only knows what must have happened. You are sleeping here tonight. I am not letting you and Manci walk home alone.” Lilli’s face, as she listened, became as red as Mother’s.
“Let’s get their coats off,” Lilli said, looking at me. I could feel the cold stickiness on my neck and in my armpits, and Iboya and I were still breathing heavily.
Sandor and Manci, sitting on their small bench, watched us and asked questions, but no one knew what to tell them. Joli began to cry and Lilli went to pick her up. She came back with Joli in her arms and sat down on the other little bench opposite Sandor and Manci, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She set Joli down on top of the picnic table and talked to her: “Joli doesn’t like to be alone in the bedroom. She wants to be here with Sandor and Manci. No fun for Joli alone, isn’t that so, baby?”
“She is probably hungry. I didn’t finish feeding her. Now with all of this confusion, I don’t think I should give her any more,” Mother said.
“Can she stay and eat with us, can she?” aske
d Sandor.
“Oh yes, she likes to eat grown-up food, better than milk,” continued Lilli.
Mother managed to put dinner on the table, and we all ate, but her face remained flushed during our meal. Later that evening, while she and Lilli did the dishes and Iboya and I were in our bedroom washing up, I heard Mother as she spoke to Lilli in a hushed tone: “My mother was right, I should have tried to send the girls to America. Maybe it’s not too late. I will have to go and find out if there still is a chance. I don’t know what to do about Etu. According to her last letter, she has no intention of quitting school and coming home from Budapest as I asked her to. I don’t understand why all my daughters are so strong-willed.” Lilli answered her in a voice too low for me to hear, and after that I heard only the sounds of dishes being put away. Iboya and I slept close to each other that night.
8
A FEW DAYS LATER we returned home from school to find Lilli alone in the kitchen. “Where’s Mother?” we asked in unison as the door opened and Mother came in. She was dressed in her best clothes. Taking off her coat and handing it to Iboya, she sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and began to speak. “I ran my feet off, going to all the places where people told me I could get visas to send you girls to America. People don’t know what they are talking about. You can’t get passage on a boat no matter what. There are all the Americans going home with their families. Then there are all the people who already have their visas and who have already applied. All I can tell you children is that I tried everything. I pleaded, I cried, I tried to bribe. Nothing made an impression. They hardly even listened. I guess they’ve heard it all before. You should have seen all the people waiting in lines to speak to the officials. Women with babies in their arms. Everybody with a story to tell and nobody to listen. One clerk told me, ‘Listen, lady, if I had any influence I would get myself on a boat to America. You think I like what’s going on?’”
Mother bent down and picked up her purse. She took out a bulging envelope, and as she held it up I could see that it was filled with bank notes that Babi had sent Mother for our passage. “I’ll have to try to get this back to my mother. Maybe she can buy back a piece of the land she sold. She’s owned that land for as long as I can remember. It’s not the rain that’s made those fields fruitful, it’s her endless, untiring love. She’ll never understand that her land could not buy passage to America for her granddaughters.”
We all stood quietly, waiting for her to finish, hoping that she would feel better after she had told us everything. It was not like Mother to be so upset. She usually did not let disappointments bother her. “You bounce back like yeast dough,” Father used to tease her. “No punch can keep you down.” But Mother was down now. She sat in the chair and stared past us until Joli started to whimper. Then, with a start, she pulled herself up. “Who knows, maybe it is for the best after all? What would this house be like without my daughters?”
* * *
The spring of 1941 also brought some changes to our school routine. Instead of play during recess, we now had drills and group gymnastics like soldiers. We had to buy navy shorts and white shirts; they gave us large wooden hoops and batons, and we were taught to do tricks with them. We learned to do push-ups, to jump through the hoops, and to use the batons as swords in fencing exercises.
Ica Molnar and I were put into the same group and started walking back and forth to school together. But we did not confide our secrets to each other as we had before I went to Komjaty. Ica’s parents and mine had been good friends, frequently going into each other’s back yards to converse together. But since my return I had only seen our mothers exchange greetings on the street. Ica and I could sense the new limits to our relationship.
Just before Passover, Mother and Lilli received the first cards from the men in almost two months. Father’s card seemed to jolt Mother out of a depression, and she cried as she read it over and over.
“When was that card sent?” Lilli asked.
“Almost three weeks ago.”
“Lajos’ card is almost four,” Lilli exclaimed. She and Mother beamed at each other in spite of their tears and exchanged postcards.
The first week in June we received a surprise visit from a woman about Mother’s age accompanied by a girl my age and a boy of seven. She introduced herself as Mrs. Gerber. “My husband wrote to me that he is in your husband’s battalion,” she said as Mother walked with her toward the salon.
“He asked that I come and meet you so that if one of us gets mail and the other doesn’t, we can check with each other and be in touch,” she said after she had seated herself on the chair in the salon. Mother introduced us to Mrs. Gerber, and she, in turn, introduced us to Judi and Pali. The women talked for a while, giving each other all the information they had received in the past months from their husbands. Then Mother went into the kitchen and brought back holiday cakes and tea. She was playing hostess again, a role that she loved, and she talked about Father without stopping. Mrs. Gerber invited us to visit her the next Saturday. “I have a cherry tree full of cherries, and they should be ripe by then.”
We all decided to call on the Gerbers the following Saturday. Judi Gerber and I climbed up into the tree with a basket and picked the ripe fruit for everybody.
“You realize that we are picking cherries on the Sabbath and nobody seems to notice,” I said.
“We are not religious,” Judi answered. “We don’t bother with tradition and holidays, we are only Jewish by birth.”
Beginning with that Sabbath, Judi and I became friends. We waved and talked to each other on the playground. She didn’t have many friends because the other girls said she was odd and standoffish, but she really wasn’t once you got to know her.
“Funny we never talked before,” I said to her one day.
“You were always with your friends.”
“I’m not so friendly with them any more. I feel closer to you now.”
Judi had come from Budapest when her father’s company transferred him to Beregszász before the army drafted him. She lent me some of her books from the school in Budapest and told me that the school had been a progressive one where the students discussed all kinds of ideas and where there were no rigid routines.
I told Iboya some of the things Judi had said. “Don’t pick up too many of her ideas,” Iboya answered, “or you will become as unpopular as she.”
Mother and Mrs. Gerber continued to see each other, and they often talked about Budapest. “My daughter Etu is there in the Gymnasium,” Mother said to Mrs. Gerber one afternoon when we were all sitting in our back yard. “I have asked her to come home, but she wants to finish the year.”
“Don’t ask her to come back here,” Mrs. Gerber replied. “She would be much better off there in an emergency. There is less conflict in the big cities because people are not that easily influenced by propaganda. What can she do here? I wish I were back there. We went to the opera and the theater and had marvelous friends.”
“Yes,” said Mother. “I lived there for a while when I was a young woman; I stayed with one of my sisters who is now in America. How I loved the theater! That was what I missed most of all when I came here. What a long time ago all of that was!”
“But she still remembers all of the plays she saw,” said Lilli. “My mother would have made a good actress. You should see her play out some of the parts.”
Mother and Mrs. Gerber’s conversation turned to food rationing, and Lilli excused herself to take a walk to the tobacco store. She returned with a newspaper, holding up the front page for Mother and Mrs. Gerber to read. The headlines were twice the usual size: HUNGARY JOINS GERMANY TO INVADE RUSSIA. Judi and I left the shade of the chestnut tree and read over our mothers’ shoulders.
“Lucky for us that Mr. Kovacs is past forty,” Mother said. “He will be able to continue to run the store for us. Without him, we’d lose our weekly income.”
“With this general draft in effect, there won’t be many men left,” comme
nted Mrs. Gerber. “Hitler has come to claim his payment for helping the Hungarians take back Ruthenia and the Czechoslovak and Ukrainian lands. He’s going to leave Hungary a country of old men, women, and children.”
9
IN SEPTEMBER I entered the fifth grade. Gymnastics were extended to two hours a day. “Soon you won’t have time to learn,” Mother commented when I told her about it.
“They are training them for the army,” said Lilli.
“Bite your tongue,” was Mother’s quick reply.
Iboya joined a subdivision of the Red Cross in charge of individual street detail. They enforced blackout drills by inspecting all of the windows, and they were also trained in first aid.
Toward the end of the month a postcard came from Father saying that his company was being transferred and would pass through Beregszász on or about October 6. Mrs. Gerber appeared with a similar postcard from her husband. She and Mother pooled their rations over the next few days and bought as much flour, sugar, eggs, and butter as they could. They made us pick the walnut tree clean. We peeled the outside green covering off the nuts until our hands were stained jet black. Mrs. Gerber and Mother sat on the porch, cracking the hard shells and chopping up the walnut meats, which were still moist with milk. There was no time to let them dry out.
Lilli’s hands became busier than I had ever recalled seeing them. She rolled and filled strudels with nuts and sugar and grated lemon peel from morning until dark. Mother piled the split logs into the bread oven, lit them, and after they had burned down, filled the oven with all the pastries they had prepared.
At dawn on the morning of October 6, our two families went to the main railroad station at the other end of Beregszász, to sit on the benches with our bundles and wait for the train that would pass by with Father and his men. Jumping up every time a train moved over the tracks, Mother talked to all the conductors and attendants, hoping to get some information. They had none. When it grew dark, Lilli, Iboya, Judi, and I took the children and went back to our houses while Mother and Mrs. Gerber continued their vigil, taking naps in turn and watching the bundles. We returned to the station in the morning with breakfast for them. They looked tired but refused to go home to freshen up while we remained at the station. We went through the same routine for three more days until, disheartened, Mother and Mrs. Gerber were finally persuaded by the train officials to return to their homes.
Upon the Head of the Goat Page 5
