by Endre Farkas
“Velcome,” the captain said in English.
“Köszönöm,” Tommy replied. Everyone applauded.
Short speeches were made, and photographs were taken.
“We ask you, Tamás, to say a few words in your mother tongue. Thank you.” Tommy hadn’t expected this. He assumed the ritual would be the same as in Budapest.
He was nervous, unsure whether he could say something that would sound coherent. “I only went to grade one before we escaped, so I am…,” he trailed off. He almost said “sorry” before he remembered the trouble it caused at the airport. “I am, uh, not very good Hungarian. We are very happy to be here in Debrecen. We are waiting to play good games. Thank you.”
“Tomikám, Tomikám.” A small woman was fiercely elbowing her way past the dignitaries and reporters. “Tomikám, Tomikám,” she exclaimed as she reached out and embraced him. She was crying and shaking. She grabbed his arm, pulled his head down to her lips and began kissing him all over his face.
“Aunt Magda, Aunt Magda,” Tommy whispered.
41
“Don’t talk to anyone.”
“I won’t,” Tommy said as he put the suitcase in the taxi. He assured Coach Hus that he had his passport and that he would be back in the dorm by curfew.
“Where are you from?” the driver asked after Tommy gave him the address.
“Canada,” Tommy answered.
“You’re a Hajdu.”
“How do you know?”
“You have a Hajdu accent.”
“I only lived here for seven years.”
“It’s enough. Do you have American cigarettes?”
“No, I don’t smoke.”
The driver looked at him through the rear-view mirror. “You live in a country that has all kinds of cigarettes and you don’t smoke? What a shame.” Tommy shrugged and stared out the window. The taxi wove through narrow cobblestone streets lined by small old houses that reminded him of Old Montreal. It was strange to see streets empty of parked or moving cars. It seemed that people got around mainly by bus, bike or on foot.
The taxi turned onto Széchényi Street, a broad tree-lined street that reminded him of Park Avenue. Park was the first street they had lived on when they arrived in Montreal. It had been one of Montreal’s elegant residential streets once, but years of immigration transformed it into a loud and busy commercial street with the babel of Hungarian, Polish, Russian and Yiddish filling its shops and sidewalks. Park was not only a street but also a meeting place where men made deals, mothers pushed baby carriages and old women lugged heavy shopping bags and yelled at latchkey kids like him who chased each other through the crowd. With his parents working from early morning to late evening, he was free to roam and explore his neighbourhood. He loved Park Avenue, its hustle and bustle and sounds and smells.
Széchényi Street was almost deserted, with few people, few shops and hardly any kids about. There was a quiet and sombreness about it.
“Here we are,” the driver said.
“How much?” Tommy asked.
“Do you have American money?”
“How much?”
“Five dollars.”
Tommy gave it to him. The driver jumped out of the car, grabbed Tommy’s suitcase and rushed to the door with it. He handed it to Tommy and pumped his hand with both of his. He danced back to his cab and waved enthusiastically and yelled, “God bless you, Hajdu,” and sped off. His parents’ warning about using his dollars flashed into his mind. He’d been had. He shrugged and smiled. He rang the bell.
His aunt had, until recently, lived alone. Her husband had died a few years earlier and she had no children. Tommy’s grandfather lived with her now. When he asked his mother why his aunt and her husband didn’t try to escape with them, she told him that Magda was pregnant in ’56. She didn’t want to risk the unborn baby. And then it died. Tommy’s mother always cried when she told that story. She worshipped her big sister. “She got me through Auschwitz,” she had often told him.
A slot in the door slid open and a voice from behind the door asked, “Who do you want?” Tommy was caught off guard. He stepped back to check the number. “Who do you want?” the voice repeated.
“Magda Schwartz.”
“There is no Magda Schwartz here,” the voice croaked from behind the door.
Then he remembered that Schwartz was her maiden name. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m looking for Magda Lukács.”
The eye slot closed, a lock turned and the door opened.
A small old woman with a black scarf wrapped around her head eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want with Magda Lukács?”
“She is my aunt.”
“Ahh. You’re the American?” It was both a statement and a question.
“Canadian,” he corrected her.
She looked him up and down. She shrugged her shoulders and turned. Behind the door lay a courtyard with a row of small, attached cottages. In front of each was a neatly kept vegetable plot. He was surprised that people in the city grew food. In Montreal, you just went out the door and were greeted by corner grocery stores and supermarkets, where you could buy not only what you needed but also whatever you wanted. He couldn’t understand why some people, like Luigi’s and Speedy’s parents, would have gardens and make their own wine. Tommy had kidded them about being drunken immigrant farmers.
“Follow me,” she said and led the way to a door and knocked. The door opened immediately, as if his aunt had been standing behind it, waiting for the knock. Magda grabbed him and burst into tears. She was so light that he could have easily lifted her. He wondered how this little woman, barely reaching his shoulders, could have been as tough and fearless as his mother had made her out to be. Behind her stood an old man, not much taller, stubbled, with a yarmulke on his head and a collarless shirt buttoned to the throat. He too was teary-eyed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bogár,” his aunt said and slipped a coin into the woman’s palm. Mrs. Bogár showed her palm to Tommy as if to teach him how things worked here before she shuffled off. He remembered Gabi’s dad cursing concierges, accusing them of being police informants, who collected from both “the mouse and the cat.”
As he wrapped his arms around his grandfather, Tommy felt as if he was embracing the past and the present at the same time. When his grandfather kissed him on both cheeks, he felt the stubbles and tears of a frail old man. But then his grandfather firmly shook his hand and raised his calloused palms over Tommy’s head to recite the welcome prayer, and the grandfather he remembered reappeared, the one who carried heavy sacks of wheat, who cooked up a mouth-watering vegetable stew out in the fields, whose stories of horses’ ears freezing off riveted him, the one from whom he hid in the corn silo after almost running him down with the horse wagon, the one who had a prayer for every action, from waking to going to the bathroom.
Magda took his hand and held it tightly as she led him past a small kitchen, which was dimly lit by a tiny window that had bright red peppers strung across it like a necklace. They entered another small room with drawn curtains. The room, no bigger than his bedroom, was crowded with a sofa, an armchair, a coffee table and the familiar armoire with the bullet holes. In the corner a glass cabinet was filled with porcelain figurines, little shepherd boys playing flutes with little dogs at their side and little girls in folkloric headdresses, blouses and skirts with geese next to them. His parents had the same figurines. Tommy’s mother told him that they were valuable, though he couldn’t understand why. Maybe because Magda also had them. There were pictures of him with his mother and father at his high school graduation and his Bar Mitzvah picture with a tallit draped around his shoulders and yarmulke on his head.
He sat between his aunt and his grandfather, each gripping one of his hands. He didn’t know what to say.
“We’re so glad that you are here,” Magda said. “Your grandfather stayed up
all night praying during your flight.”
“And the good Lord answered. We have to have a drink to celebrate,” he said, patting Tommy’s knee. Magda got up and brought in three glasses and a half-full bottle of clear liquid that had no label.
“Do you know what pálinka is?” he asked Tommy
“A man is not a man until he has drunk pálinka,” Tommy said, raising his glass.
His grandfather mumbled another prayer.
“Amen and La Chaim,” Tommy said when he finished.
“He speaks Yiddish.” His grandfather beamed.
“I just know a few words.”
“Here, that’s a lot.” His grandfather and Magda repeated “La Chaim” in unison and drank the pálinka in one gulp. Tommy tilted his head and swallowed. He waited for the explosion of fire to shoot through his throat and nostrils. His eyes watered. He pursed his lips.
“Now you’re a man, again.”
As the warmth spread through his body, Tommy said, “I remember drinking pálinka before we left Békes and then before we crossed the border.”
“Tell us all about it,” his grandfather said. “Hannah didn’t write us, so we don’t know what happened. We didn’t know if you had made it or not for a year. We had visits from the secret police. They kept telling us that they had captured you.”
“First we eat,” Magda said. She disappeared into the kitchen.
Tommy could smell the familiar food from the living room. Just as he was about to dive into the chicken soup his grandfather put his hand on Tommy’s and signalled Magda, who handed Tommy a well-worn fedora. He put it on.
“You look like your grandfather when he was younger,” Magda said, beaming.
His grandfather began praying again. Tommy glanced at his aunt and noticed that she wasn’t praying and didn’t say Amen.
After the meal, Tommy told the story of their time in Budapest in the safe house, watching young kids blow up a tank, staying in the synagogue, the stopping of the train by the secret police, their near arrest, the midnight border crossing, the near capture by a soldier, their sea voyage and their arrival in Montreal.
“Thank God,” his grandfather said.
“Rotten lice,” Magda spat.
Tommy opened up the suitcase and repeated his mother’s instructions about the lining. Magda went through the clothes, separating what was theirs and what was meant for Emma-mama.
“I have to go back now. There is a curfew at the dormitory. We have a practice tomorrow and the game is the day after. And then we have to go to Budapest right away. But I will come back after.”
“Wait,” his grandfather said and went off to the bedroom. He came back with something wrapped in a handkerchief. “For your Bar Mitzvah.”
Tommy was puzzled. His Bar Mitzvah was six years ago.
“We couldn’t send it to you,” Magda said. “We were afraid it might be stolen by those rotten customs people.”
He unfolded the handkerchief. It was a silver cigarette case.
“Open it,” she said.
Tommy clicked the catch and it sprung open. It was inscribed to Tommy. For the Bar Mitzvah of Tamás Wolfstein. Mazel tov.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, caressing it. His grandfather took out his handkerchief and dabbed his eyes and blew his nose. Tommy hadn’t realized until now how much he missed not having a grandfather all these years.
“Are you and Grandfather coming to the game?” he asked Magda as they stood in the doorway.
“I will. Gabi got me a ticket. But your grandfather isn’t well enough.”
Tommy stiffened. “What’s wrong? Anyu didn’t say anything about him being sick.”
“She doesn’t know. He doesn’t want me to tell her. Not yet. I will tell you when you come back next week.”
He was about to leave when his grandfather stopped him.
“Tell me one thing.” He looked at Tommy in the eyes with a seriousness that comes before words of wisdom. “Tell me. How do they make the airplane and the people so small when it’s in the sky?”
For a moment Tommy considered it. “I don’t know. A miracle.” He embraced him and whispered goodbye.
42
Coach Hus blew his whistle and gathered the boys around him. “Okay, boys, last day before Game Day. Let’s fool around.”
“What do you mean, Coach?” Luigi asked.
“Today’s practice is about play. Johan Huizinga, a Dutch historian and cultural theorist, wrote a book called Homo Ludens.” The boys snickered. “Not that kind,” Coach Hus said, shaking his head. “It’s Latin, it means ‘Playing Man.’ Huizinga studied the history and cultural significance of play. He made a distinction between games and play. Games like soccer or hockey, he said, have rules imposed on them: duration, location, as well as conditions under which it is played. Play doesn’t. The place, the time and rules are imposed by the players. There is no supervision from the outside. According to him, all creatures, dogs, cats and humans, play. They don’t need to be told how, why or when to do it. They just do it. Have fun, boys,” he said, and left.
“What the fuck was that?” Ivan asked.
The boys weren’t sure what to do. They looked to Tommy and Speedy for guidance. Tommy yelled “Huizinga” as he yanked Speedy’s shorts down and took off down the field.
“You loco,” Speedy yelled as he tried to pull up his shorts and chase Tommy at the same time. He tripped and went rolling.
Schmutz slipped behind Ivan and got down on all fours. Tito gave Ivan a shove, who went flying ass-backwards. “What the fuck?” he yelled, grabbing Schmutz, and began wrestling with him. Soon they were all chasing each other across the field, kicking balls at each other, pulling down shorts and breaking into groups to see who could keep the ball in the air the longest.
Speedy tackled Tommy and they started laughing. Tommy sat up next to Speedy. “As you said, Coach Hustle is crazy as a fox.”
“Did you notice that guy?” Speedy asked.
“Who?”
“That guy standing beside the tree over there?”
Tommy shaded his eyes. “I don’t see anyone.”
“He’s gone now. Maybe he was scout.”
“Yeah, or maybe he’s a spy,” Tommy said jokingly. But as the words left his mouth, he felt a chill.
43
Tommy had never been in such a quiet dressing room. It was like being at a funeral. Everybody was in his own world. He laid out his uniform on the bench. Naked, he stood before it as if he were in a trance. He began his ritual: jockstrap, shorts, socks, shin pads, cleats, left then right, and finally his jersey. Number ten. His number since he could say Puskás. Puskás, the captain of the team that beat England, the best in the world, on their home turf, in the game of the century. People said that it could not be done, but they did it. Like Tommy and his parents, Puskás and the team had defected in ’56. Puskás had said he would not return until the Russians were gone. He never came back. But now Tommy had.
“We probably won’t win this game,” Coach Hus said.
Every player looked up. What kind of pep talk is this? Tommy wondered. He stared at the coach.
“But that doesn’t matter. What matters is how we play. I want you guys to play like the Canadian university champions that you are. I want you to play like Canadians. You are the Internationals. You and your families came from all over the world to be Canadians. Your parents worked hard to make a better life, to give you a better life. Thank them by doing your best. Make your university, yourselves and Canada proud. I want you to play with pride and heart; hard and like a team. I want you to play and enjoy the game.” He clapped his hands and shook hands with every player as they solemnly exited.
Tommy and Speedy led the way into the tunnel beneath the stands. The Debrecen team emerged and lined up beside them. Their all-white uniforms with a band of blue across the chest
made them seem invincible. And Gabi, in black, was like the gatekeeper who allows no one in.
The referee stood before the teams, blew his whistle and led them out onto the field.
A tremendous cheer rose from the crowd. Tommy looked around. The stadium was half full. He felt a kind of vertigo. They had never played in front of such a huge crowd. Thousands of people were yelling and applauding.
The teams lined up on both sides of the referee, facing the dignitaries. In the first row at centre field, Tommy saw his aunt waving. Beside her was another woman, taller and plumper, who was also smiling and waving ecstatically. It was Emma-mama.
The announcer had trouble with the names of the Internationals. Only Tommy’s name did he pronounce correctly. Tommy heard a few boos among the polite applause. The cheer and applause for the home team was loud and drawn out. So that’s what adulation sounds like, he thought. He closed his eyes and took it in. A charge of electricity shot through him. His heart beat faster. He didn’t care that the cheers and applause weren’t for him.
The first notes of the Canadian anthem sounded. Strong and declarative. And though it wasn’t his native land, it was his home now. Derek began to sing. The others spontaneously put their arms around each other’s shoulders and joined him, swaying in unison. It gave him goosebumps. And even though he didn’t know all the words, it gave him a sense of pride, and he appreciated his parents’ constant declaration of love for Canada.