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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?

                                                                                                                           The Waste Land, T.S. Elliot


Memories...bits and pieces

 

I was a late child, my sister told me. Meaning, that I was born ten years after my brother Bela, and sixteen years after my sister, Iby. She said, it had been her influence--her "fault"--that I was born. In the mid-1930's abortion was a risky business, and an aunt died of having a baby aborted just about the time my Mother became pregnant with me.

I was born February 12, 1936.

I don't know how my Mother felt about having me. Those days of unplanned pregnancies the great majority of the people were unwanted, or at least, unplanned.

But my Father, so the story goes, from the first time he looked at me, declared me the most beautiful child in the world.

One of my oldest memories goes back to the time when I was about four, perhaps five, years old. We had been living in Satoraljaujhely. 10 Justus Street. I remember being awakened one night by my Mother's hushed voice as she began dressing me, assuring me, or perhaps herself, that everything was going to be all right. My pillow was heavily stained with blood, but I was half asleep, and I wasn't concerned since my Mother was fussing over me, anyway. We hurriedly left the house in the darkness of the night. Somehow, and I imagine it took some doing those days, my Father had managed a "taxi" to come and get us. The taxi was a horse-drawn buggy. In the quiet of the night it rolled along noisily on the cobblestones. My Mother held a handkerchief to my lips and I could taste my salty blood in my mouth. I was warm and comfortable in her encircled arms as I listened to the horse's shoes hitting the cobblestones and echoing strangely in the quiet of the sleeping city. All the fuss had to do with a baby tooth that was pulled the day before.

The next day I wasn't quite sure if it had really happened or it was a dream, because the episode was never mentioned again.

Children have parents to take care of such things.

Around the same time, in Satoraljaujhely, there was a little puppy I used to play with, right across the street. One day, the puppy still wanted to continue playing after I had had enough. He was getting unrelenting and I was getting irritated. I turned and ran across the street to get away from him. He ran after me and nipped my thigh. It was a small thing, but enough to keep me in a respectable distance from dogs of any size, from then on. Unfortunately, they seemed to smell my fear, a fear that lasted well into adulthood, and they could seek me out even in a crowd.

x x x

I used to love taking walks with my Father. He had made me feel safe and precious. I could tell he enjoyed being with me, too, and that made the time I spent with him even more joyful.

Satoraljaujhely was a windy city, and my parents had been concerned, constantly, about me catching a cold. So we took our walks in a rather special way. The fashion of the times had been for gentlemen to carry walking sticks. My Father's walking stick was made of black wood with a delicately carved, curved handle in the shape of the head of a horse. The head was made of silver, and it was, actually, a screw top to a small bottle that was hidden inside the stick. It held a small amount of spirits, also the fashion of the times. My Father walked ahead of me, holding up his walking stick behind him so I could hold on to the other end. He believed that his wide shoulders could shield me from the wind. I made sure he would go on believing that in fear of cutting our walks short. As I strolled behind him happily, trying to step on his shadow, I used to pretend he was a giant. And in my eyes he was. I could have gone on forever, skipping on his shadow on the cobblestones.

In 1941, at the age of five, I was a skinny little girl. I had very long auburn hair combed into two thick braids. Those braids were my Father's pride and joy. I am sure I was too pale and too skinny to be pretty, but my Father used to tell me how very beautiful I was, and there wasn't anyone like me in all the provinces of the land.

He was probably right. There could not have been too many children quite as spoiled as I was. I had been the youngest in the family, and although I don't know how old my parents were when I was born, they had not been young.

Among other things, I disliked the taste of milk. And because I had been so skinny, and had constantly picked at my food, my parents had tried all sort of bribery, but I could not be coaxed into drinking my milk. Until one day, when my Father found the magic.

Those days, soda water had been sold in special bottles. There was a tube, a siphon, in the middle of the bottle that carried the carbonated water when the valve was applied pressure. The bottles had been made of glass and they broke easily. One day, my Father took me to a place where all those broken soda bottles had been collected. It was a large yard, with mountains of dusty, broken bottles. A graveyard for soda bottles. He didn't allow me to move around, but I could watch him as he carefully selected one bottle with a healthy siphon from the dusty mountain. Still, I couldn't understand his excitement. He had carefully carried the broken bottle to a man, to another dusty place, where the tube was cautiously removed, and the two ends cut straight. "Now, it is safe for you to put it into your mouth and drink your milk with it." my Father said. That was my first straw. It had worked, too, I kept drinking my milk, using the glass tube, although I made sure it had to be frequently replaced.

One day our walk had a special purpose. We went to visit my Father's sister. She was very old, much older than my Father. Her wrinkles were set deeply in her face and she seemed to be constantly frowning. I thought she looked that way, because she was so grouchy and unfriendly. She wasn't nice to look at. Perhaps, she didn't think I was beautiful, either.

Aunt Cecil had lived in a very big house, much bigger and nicer than ours was. It was bigger and nicer than most houses I had seen. The garden was very large with many trees and walks, and benches hidden under some trees. It seemed more like a park, than a private garden. I was following the narrow walk away from the house, when I heard voices.

I looked back, but the terrace where I had left my Father sitting with Aunt Cecil, was hidden by the trees. Then, I heard laughter and a child's voice. I realized, the voices had come from the other side of the fence behind a row of bushes.

I carefully made my way to the fence and peeped over to the adjoining garden. My breathing stopped, and not only because I did not want to be discovered. On the other side of the fence in the sunny garden, there was a little boy, younger than I was, stark naked. He was jumping in and out of a small pool, while his mother was standing around, laughing, ready with a towel, trying to convince him to come and get dried off. They were so close, that I was in danger of being discovered. My feet was rooted to the ground, and I looked. And I looked some more. I discovered what made little boys different, and I did not liked it. I was glad I was a girl. I was glad I had it all built in, instead of it dangling there exposed in the front.

My Father never could discover why I was so very quiet on the way home, nor could he figure out why I wanted to go to Aunt Cecil's house so often. I took the same path in her garden many times after that, and looked over the same fence. I never saw the little boy again.

x x x

It must have been in 1942 when my sister, Iby, came home with the baby. Her husband had been called into the army, a special unit for young Jewish men. As far as I was concerned there was no war, but if Iby's homecoming was its result, war was fine with me. My parents were very excited and happy, and it seemed they could use a dose of happiness. I didn't know why there were so few smiles and happy times since we had moved there. I didn't like living there either. There were few trees, no open spaces, but although I enjoyed my Father spending extra time with me, the feeling I had was that he didn't quite see it my way, and he would rather not have had all that time on his hands. So, we all looked forward to having a baby in the house.

The day they were to arrive I was left to play with the children in the courtyard, while my parents had gone to pick them up. I couldn't pay attention to the games the children were playing. All I wanted to do was to stand at the front of the house, watching for the carriage to come.

When I could no longer wait, I decided to walk to the corner, hoping to see them sooner. To no avail. When I got back to the house I realized they had arrived from the opposite direction.

My first glimpse of Gyurika was of him sitting on his potty. His curly blond hair falling into his face as he was sitting there more asleep than awake. Iby was squatting next to him holding him up so he wouldn't fall. He had the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I can still see the softness of sleep on his face and in his blue eyes as he awoke, when I came bursting into the room.

I fell in love with him instantly.

x x x

There had been a big, noisy family living next door. They had nine, perhaps ten, children. I always had someone to play with. One of the girls was Iby's age. They became best friends.

(The next time my sister and Edith met was in Auschwitz.)

x x x

We had moved to Ragaly before I was six.

To reach the town you would have to negotiate a narrow, winding road through the mountains. The bus would proceed slowly with caution, and looking out the window you would see only the green mountains and the blue sky. The side of the bus would seem to hang over the narrow road, and the head of the trees would seem to reach up to touch, and barely miss, its moving body.

The little town of Ragaly was in a short walking distance from our house. It had a church, and a few small stores. There was another Jewish family in town, the pharmacist. The doctor, also Jewish, lived in a town not far away. And, oh yes, the town had a school.

I was attending the local elementary school. My academic life didn't start out in this small town, but in the closest large city, Putnok. It had been a very short experience, and I no longer remember many of the details. I was to stay with a Jewish family for the duration of the school year. I had, probably, stayed a night or two the most, because I have no recollection of the people or the place. My memory of that episode consists of me, a very bored me, sitting in a classroom with its windows open because it was a very warm September. I didn't know if the other first graders had any clue at all why we had to sit on those hard, uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of sticky desks. My desk had all sort of symbols scratched on its top, hearts in all sizes some with arrows and names, and ink spots, from past generations of bored students. Most of the children had been crying--they hadn't been informed what to expect, either. I, for one, didn't know that I was expected to pay attention. In any case, it was too early in the morning to be out of my bed, to be completely awake and conscious. The strange woman front of the blackboard was talking to us, but she could not penetrate my indifference. Besides, the noise from the street defeated the desperate voice of the teacher. The classroom was on the ground floor, and there was a market across the street. That, with all its colors, noise, and activities was slowly bringing me to consciousness.

Then, as I was staring through the open windows, captivated by the constant movement of people on the other side of the street, the familiar figure of my Father with his walking stick, moved into my screen of vision.

Without a second thought I jumped from my seat, and out the open window. I paid no attention to my bleeding knees as I landed on the sidewalk, after all, I was a country girl.

I found my Father quickly, if somewhat breathless. In an instant, I could see how glad he was to see me, so I wasn't concerned about him being angry with me. I must have known exactly what buttons to push, because it did not take long to explain how I hated it there, and how much I wanted to go home. Without too many words he took my hand and we were walking back to the school.

The astonished teacher was still trying to figure out how to handle best what had happened, when we walked in on the noisy class as the children, all talking at the same time forgetting their own troubles, tried to describe my unusual departure.

My Father introduced himself to the bewildered teacher and explained that he was taking me home, and we came back just to pick up my things.

I had a feeling he knew this was somewhat unorthodox, because, although he was firm, he had been just a little too polite and respectful.

So, this was my Father.

In years to come, when I could no longer remember his face, I could still remember the feeling of being missed, treasured… and rescued.

I have few memories of my Mother. In my memory there is a stillness, a quietness about her that I can still feel, that is almost visible, even in the distance of many years. I cannot remember her voice, except her singing very quietly "Jerusalem..." I remember how very sad I thought she was, and her singing had sounded more like a prayer than an expression of happiness. It was the only song I ever heard her sing. I like to think how pleased she would be that her favourite song became the National Anthem of Israel. That there is an Israel.

I can't recall, at all, being disciplined by her, but then, I cannot recall being disciplined by anyone. Except my sister. Many years later my sister would relate the following story. My Mother was out early one morning, and Iby had been put in charge of me. She had given me breakfast, but I didn't like it, and I wanted something else. My sister told me I should sit there as long as it would take me to eat my breakfast. So I sat. Whining and complaining I sat there with my food untouched, so the story goes, until my Mother returned home around lunch-time. My Mother's reaction to the situation was a quiet remark, that Iby should limit herself reprimanding her own child, and leave my upbringing to them. How ironic.

My Mother had beautiful black hair and her sad eyes were so dark, that they also looked black. She had very fair skin, and so, the contrast was striking. She always wore her hair in a bun. My parents had been religious and we kept kosher, but my mother didn't wear long sleeves, and didn't cover her head, because my Father thought her hair was much too beautiful to hide under a scarf.

My hair always took a lot of her time, and that she had never seemed to have enough of. I wanted my hair short, like most children I knew, and I suspected my Mother had wished the same, but my Father wouldn't hear of cutting my thick, long braids. I had always known when she was piqued at my Father, because those times she wasn't mindful of the brush pulling on my hair.

I can't remember her not being busy, she was always doing something. My Father had been very proud of her extreme cleanliness, her ability to make any house a home. It seemed that we moved a great deal after the loss of my Father's fortune, and making the new places a home must have been no small task.

I also remember the odd times when I had managed to wake myself up earlier than my Mother had. My Father had long be gone by then, and I climbed into my Mother's bed, and wiggled against the curve of her warm body as she had laid on her side, a position of warmth and safety with her arm holding me tight.

x x x

I loved going with my Father when he drove around supervising the estate he managed, although the swinging of the two wheel horse-drawn carriage had never failed to make me sick in my stomach. Luckily, he drove only short distances at a time, and he stopped often to talk to the foremen, so my stomach could recover before its contents would actually see daylight again.

I became quite crafty hiding this problem from my Father. I asked questions that would take him a long time to explain, while I was taking deep breaths trying to keep my stomach down. I feared he would not have taken me along if he knew, and the time I could spend with him never seemed enough.

Once, we stopped at the place where the men were harvesting the ripe watermelons. The buzzing bees had made me jumpy and the men careless with their work. My Father told them to cut up a few melons and place them some distance away. The sweet smell of watermelon drew the bees and wasps away from the place where the men worked. When the melons, cut in halves, became blanketed by the hungry bees, one of the men walked over and flattened them with the back of his shovel.

With one weapon the life of many can be ruled.

x x x

                             On April 27 and 28, two special trains loaded with 4000 men and women
                             left the interment camp of Kistarcsa, bound for the killing center of Auschwitz.
                             These were advance transports...

                                                                           Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews

 

THOSE FIRST TRAINS HAD CARRIED MY MOTHER, MY FATHER, MY SISTER IBY, AND MY BROTHER BELA.



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