by Endre Farkas
“I’m sorry.” He embraced his mother. “You are great parents and I love you.”
“Are you okay?” his mother asked. Now she looked even more concerned.
“Yes,” he sniffled. I’m becoming a mush, just like my father, he thought to himself. “I’m okay. I’m old enough to be trusted. I wouldn’t do bad things. I’m grown up.”
“Okay, mister grown up. Come, I’ll fix you something.”
“It’s late.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starved.”
His mother’s chicken soup had never looked so golden and had never tasted so good.
35
What a time to get one. Wave after wave of blood beat against his temple. He opened his eyes but the daylight forced them shut again. He yawned to relieve the tightness in his jaw. It helped. He popped a couple of his mother’s migraine pills, hoping the codeine would kick in before takeoff. He put a couple of the pills in his shaving kit. His parents were already up, talking quietly.
“We shouldn’t have said yes.”
“Hannah, he’s a big boy, he’s a man.”
“When he’s running the business and has a nice Jewish wife and children, then he’s a man.”
Tommy walked into the kitchen, rubbing his scar. “I guess I won’t be a man for a while. “He smiled.
“Hey, elephant ears.”
“You have a headache?” his mother asked when she saw him squinting.
“A little.”
“Yours are never little. Maybe you shouldn’t go.”
“Anyu, don’t be silly.”
“I made cream of wheat, eggs, toast and coffee. Coffee always helps my headache,” she said.
“And your pills.”
“Is everything packed?” his father asked.
“A week ago,” Tommy said.
His parents had bought him two large suitcases. “I’m not moving back there,” Tommy protested when he saw them.
“One is to take clothes for your grandfather, Aunt Magda, Emma-mamma and Gabi,” his mother said.
“Hannah, do you remember how thrilled we used to be when we got one of Margit’s packages?”
“The whole town knew about it.”
“You and Emma went through each item, stroking them, patting them, especially the jackets.”
“It’s where Margit hid the nylons and the money, in the lining of the most tattered jacket, the one that those thieving customs people always passed over. Those rotten lice. They always stole something from the package.”
“Why did she hide nylons in jackets?”
“Nylons were valuable, especially ones without seams. They were only available for the wives of Party members. They were worth at least two months’ salary. If you could get them. Every woman in town wanted a pair,” Hannah said.
“They still do,” his father said.
“And the money?”
“American dollars, which were illegal to have, were worth more than gold,” his mother said.
“I remember the time she sent two hockey sweaters. You and Gabi were in heaven. They were the Montreal team’s jerseys. They even had numbers on them. Both were number nine. You and Gabi wore them all summer even though they were woollen. You boys were the envy of all the other boys. Who knew that one day we would be the ones sending a package. And that you’d be delivering it personally as a Canadian,” his father said.
“You’re going to make me look like a homokos,” Tommy joked, watching his mother fill the suitcase with bras and slips.
“You’re not one of those!” she snapped.
The first time he heard the word homokos, after coming home from Mr. Papp’s, Tommy didn’t know what it was. Homok, he knew, meant sand, so he assumed that homokos was a person who had something to do with sand. But Mr. Papp had nothing to do with sand.
“Homoks are men who like boys,” his mother had explained. “And if you aren’t careful, they will turn you into one of them.”
Tommy laughed. He had never met a homo, so he wasn’t sure what one was like. He and his teammates often joked about them. And now, thinking about how Mr. Papp dressed, talked, how his bookstore seemed to have only male customers, how neat his place was and how soft his hands were… he certainly fit the bill.
Tommy was sure he wasn’t a homo—he definitely wasn’t interested in kissing or having sex with Speedy or Schmutz—but he wasn’t about to tell his parents how he knew.
“No jeans,” his mother said when she spotted him putting a pair in his suitcase. “You will wear nice clothes. You will show them our success. Let them drool with envy, those rotten lice!”
“You look beautiful,” his father said, when he saw Tommy in his maroon university blazer with the Knights’ helmet logo on the pocket, sharply pleated grey pants and polished shoes. “Come here.”
His father had on a yarmulke and put one on Tommy. With raised palms he made a canopy over his son, who bowed his head as the blessing was recited.
He was taller than his father. When had that happened? he wondered. Tommy remembered being a small boy sitting on his father’s shoulders watching the statue in the town square being pulled down. And at his Bar Mitzvah, he was so small that he had to stand on a step to reach the dais to read his passage.
His father finished, kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him. Tommy mother stood behind his father. She was tight-lipped and stern.
“Always be a mensch. Always do the right thing and come back safety,” his father said. He had given up correcting his father about that expression.
“Don’t forget to kiss the mezuzah.”
Tommy rarely did it, but today he put his fingers to his lips and then to the little metal tube nailed to the doorpost. Just in case, he told himself.
“You have your passport?”
“Oh shit.” He ran back to his room to get it.
“He’s a man, just like you,” his mother said to his father as they pulled out of the driveway and headed for the airport.
He remembered when the passport arrived.
“You got mail,” his father shouted as soon as Tommy entered the door.
He never got mail. “Who is it from?”
“It’s your passport,” his father said holding it aloft like a torch. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Tommy ran his hand over the dark blue cover. It was emblazoned in gold with a crown and mythical creatures holding spears with flags of England and France. Tommy opened it and saw himself, serious, and his signature, Tamás Gyorgy Wolfstein, Canadian Citizen. There was also a letter attesting to his Canadian citizenship and the rules about the use and misuse of the passport.
“We will put them in the safety deposit box until you need them,” his mother said and took the passport from him.
“This calls for a celebration,” his father had said.
They got in the car and went to The Silvery Moon Chinese restaurant in the mall. Over egg rolls, spareribs, pineapple chicken and fried rice, his father recalled how their Hungarian passports were confiscated by the secret police. Tommy remembered bits of it, how the train jerked to a halt, the shouting, the shoving, being held tight by his father and grabbing his mother by her hair.
“They can keep their cursed passports,” his mother said as she sipped her tea.
“This passport is more valuable than a hundred of theirs,” his father said, raised his bowl and drank.
Tommy burst out laughing.
“This is serious,” his father said
“That’s a finger bowl, Apu. You’re supposed to clean your fingers in it.”
36
In all the years they’d lived in Montreal they had never been to the airport. They had never gone anywhere by plane. They had come to Canada by boat, and from Halifax to Montreal by train. Once there, they did very little travelling outside the city. �
�We have wandered enough,” his father said when Tommy asked why they didn’t go to New York or Florida like their friends. They had travelled outside the province only once. After they had become citizens and bought their first car, his father had insisted that they drive to Ottawa, which he called their New Pest, so they could have their picture taken standing in front of the parliament building and declare that he, Sándor, Hannah and Tommy Wolfstein were Canadians.
Montreal was enough for them. They had come from a village of a couple of thousand and were now living in a city of a million. Békes had one main street, and once you walked it up and down, you had seen everything. “Here, there are enough streets and stores to keep us busy for a lifetime,” his mother said.
And now he was about to fly across the ocean to Hungary! His parents were not only afraid of where he was flying to but of him flying at all. Once she agreed to his going, his mother began keeping track of airline crashes. By August, she was up to six. He too was anxious, but he didn’t want to show it. The drive to the airport was filled with warnings, advice and his mother’s reading of the highway signs to his father. His father, a nervous driver under normal circumstances, was speeding up and braking more than usual, which didn’t help Tommy’s migraine. It made him queasy. He tried to concentrate on other things. Marianne hadn’t called. He hadn’t talked to her since their trip. When he asked about her, Speedy said that she had been very quiet all week. Not at all her loudmouth self.
They arrived at the airport three hours before the flight because his parents constantly worried about being late. They were always early for appointments and always the first ones to arrive at parties. You never know what can go wrong, they told him whenever he complained about having to be ready hours in advance.
He was surprised to see the other players and their families already there. Maybe it’s an immigrant thing, he thought as he lugged his two suitcases to the check-in counter.
“Check the tags. Make sure your name and address are on them,” his mother said.
“Pardon, Miss.” His father smiled at the check-in lady. “This is my son, the soccer player. He is the captain and he’s going to Hungary. We want to make sure his luggage is also going to Hungary.”
Tommy felt like he was a child again. “Apu, I’m sure it is.”
“Yes, but is she?”
“Yes, it is,” the woman said, smiling.
“Good. Thank you, dear.” His father put a five-dollar bill on the counter.
“No, thank you, sir.” She pushed it back to him. Tommy stared at his shoes.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Tommy’s passport back with his ticket and boarding pass.
Tommy went to hang out with the other players. Their group sounded like the United Nations. Parents were talking to their sons in Italian, Greek, Danish, Russian, Hungarian but Tommy didn’t hear any Spanish. Where was Speedy?
“Those Spaniards are always late,” Schmutz joked. “Always mañana.”
“There he is. Fretta! Fretta!” Luigi shouted.
“Viasyni.”
“Skynde sig!”
“Toropit’ya!”
Tommy added his Hungarian hurry up. “Sijes!”
Speedy was waving and smiling. His parents were behind him. When he saw Marianne, Tommy’s heart jumped.
“Okay, gather round, boys,” Coach Hus shouted. “I want to make sure everyone is here and checked in.” After he ticked off the names, he addressed the parents, who stood around beaming. “We will do our best to make Sir George, Canada and you proud.”
“We are already proud,” Mr. Gonzales shouted. The other parents clapped.
“Okay, it’s time to go. Say goodbye to your parents.”
Tommy’s mother adjusted his tie, held his face in her palms, and brushed his forehead and gently touched his scar. His father held onto him as if for dear life.
Marianne walked over to Tommy, embraced him and kissed him hard. He was shocked. He glanced at Speedy, who was smiling, and at their parents, who weren’t. “Have a fun trip,” she said and kissed him again. They held each other. She slipped her hand into his jacket pocket. “For you,” she said.
37
Tommy was glad to have an aisle seat because he didn’t want to see the plane take off. He didn’t want to watch land disappear. Schmutz did. Speedy sat in the middle. The demonstration and explanation of emergency procedures by the stewardesses didn’t make Tommy feel any better or safer. When the plane began its run and rise, he grabbed the armrest, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Just like at the lookout. When it banked he grabbed Speedy’s hand.
“Relax, amigo.” Speedy patted him on the arm. “Marianne told me that you have a fear of heights. She told me to tell you that she’s flying with you. She’s crazy.”
Tommy smiled and relaxed a bit. He let go of Speedy’s hand and reached into his pocket to see what she had put there.
“Hey! Since when are you Catholic?” Speedy asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s a St. Christopher medal. He’s the patron saint of travellers.”
“Marianne gave it to me.”
“I think she’s trying to convert you.”
Tommy rubbed the medal between his thumb and forefinger before putting it back in his pocket.
When the pilot announced that they were going to be flying at 33,000 feet, he closed his eyes and planted his head firmly against the headrest. He wondered if he was as high as he’d been on Sunday? No, that trip wasn’t about height but depth, at least 33,000 feet deep. He felt that he and Marianne had entered each other’s souls, he could feel her flowing through him. That trip had rearranged him. He felt it now. Was it real or was he having an acid flashback, he wondered. He opened his eyes.
This was real, sitting in a metal bird, defying the laws of common sense. He was flying back to his grandfather, Aunt Magda, Emma-mama and his cousin Gabi. He had seen recent pictures of them but they weren’t the people he knew. The people he knew were frozen in time. They were an eight-year-old’s version of them. He wasn’t just going back; he was going back in time.
A sudden drop made him gasp and clutch the armrest.
“Air pocket,” shouted Schmutz, who planned to be a pilot. “Isn’t it fun?” he said as he clapped his hands together.
“Have a fun trip,” he remembered Marianne whispering to him. “Why the hell not?” he asked himself as he reached into his pocket and held onto St. Christopher for dear life.
“Yeah, it’s fun,” he forced himself to say.
Everyone applauded when the plane touched down. In spite of being told to stay seated till the plane stopped, people were up and getting their bags and coats from the overhead compartments while the plane was taxiing to the terminal. Tommy didn’t move. He didn’t like crowds and the shoving and pushing that went with it.
“Come on,” Schmutz said. “I want to get off. I want to be in Hungary.”
Inside the terminal there were soldiers everywhere. Tommy couldn’t recall seeing a single soldier in Canada, but here, they were everywhere, rifles slung over shoulders, some cradling machine guns. It made him nervous.
“Everybody line up here,” Coach Hus said. “Wolfie, you go first and tell them that we’re a team and that only you speak Hungarian.”
“Passport! Are you Hungarian?” the soldier asked after seeing his name.
“I was born in Hungary but now I’m a Canadian citizen.”
“What is the purpose of the visit?”
He struggled with his Hungarian. “I’m here with a Canadian university soccer team to play.” He pointed to the boys behind him. “They don’t speak Hungarian, so if you have questions I can stay here and help.”
“I’ll tell you what you will do,” he answered curtly and stamped his passport with a thud. “Stand there.”
On the other side of t
he checkpoint more soldiers and police were strolling in pairs. “This is a country of uniforms, eh? “Speedy noted.
“Sure looks that way,” Tommy said as they waited for their suitcases. When everybody finally had theirs, they lugged them over to customs. More uniformed men and women stood ready to inspect.
“You have anything to declare?” one of them asked. She was about his age or a little older.
“Sorry,” he said in English.
“What did you say?” she snapped back.
“I don’t understand your question,” he repeated in Hungarian.
“Did you just say szar to me?” she snapped again.
It took him a minute, to remember that szar meant “shit” in Hungarian.
“What’s so funny?”
“No. No. Sorry means ‘sorry’ in English,” he tried to explain quickly.
She was not amused. She pointed to the suitcases. “Open them up.” Tommy fumbled with the buckles. Her eyes glazed over when she saw the bras and slips. He watched her stroke them.
“Why do you have these?” She looked at him strangely.
Tommy was embarrassed. “They are gifts from my mother for my aunts,” he said blushing.
“You have a lot of clothes here.” She examined the jeans, jackets and shirts. “Are you planning to sell these on the black market?”
He was about to say “sorry” again but caught himself. “I don’t know what a black market is,” he said.
“Are you planning to sell these illegally?”
“No, no,” he tried to assure her. “They are also gifts for the family.”
“And what’s this?” She picked up the albums.
“They are records,” he said, confused.
“Are you trying to be smart?”
“What? No. I’m trying to answer your questions.”
“I know what a record is. Don’t you know that it is illegal to smuggle in capitalist propaganda?”
He didn’t know what she was talking about. “They’re records by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones for my cousin.”