Home Game

by Endre Farkas

  51

  “Think about it,” the man in the dark suit said. “You’re in a lot of trouble. You may never get out of here unless you cooperate.”

  “But I have been. I’ve been telling you the truth.”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes! I have!”

  “You attempted to smuggle in capitalist propaganda. You brought in clothing to sell on the black market and traded in forbidden currency. These are subversive acts against the Socialist Republic of Hungary.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tommy shouted.

  “And of course, there are the criminal acts you committed against the people of Hungary.”

  The man in the dark suit lit a cigarette and said nothing. He let the silence speak.

  “What do you want?” Tommy asked him.

  “For you to do your duty for your motherland.”

  “How?”

  “That’s not important. There are many ways that one can serve. The important thing is to want to serve. And benefit everyone.” His tone had changed. He wasn’t shouting and snapping.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A true Hungarian can serve his motherland even in Canada. You would be helping your family, cousin, aunts, grandfather and, of course, your parents.”

  Tommy didn’t know what to think. He felt weak. He wanted to sleep so he could wake from this nightmare.

  “Think about it.”

  52

  Tommy was in a damp, dark, dirt basement sitting on a wooden crate. His bicycle was upside down. He was rubbing the chain, link by link, with axle grease. When he finished, he turned the pedal very slowly, wiping off the excess. The chain glistened in the dark. He turned the pedal faster and faster. Suddenly an iron bar was jammed between the rear wheel spokes. His wrist twisted. He cried out. A hand holding a switchblade flashed in the dark. It jabbed the tire and disappeared. It flashed again and again, stabbing the tire. Tommy grabbed the wrist, but his greasy hands could not get a firm grip. The knife-wielding hand slipped out and as it did, the knife sliced his palm.

  Tommy bolted upright up and cried out. He was drenched in a sweat.

  Gabi grabbed him. “Are you okay?”

  Breathing rapidly, he stared into the darkness.

  “Are you okay?” Gabi repeated.

  He took a couple of deep breaths. “Yeah. Yeah. I had a bad dream. It’s okay.” He stared at his palms. They felt clammy. “I’m going for a piss.”

  Tommy walked out to the yard in his bare feet. His heart was pumping rapidly. The damp ground soaked the soles of his feet. It calmed him.

  He returned to the verandah, sat on the steps and listened to the silence of Hajdubékes. There were no city sounds: no cars, trucks or trains keeping the night awake. No one was out and about. Not even a barking dog or mewling cat. It sounded so unfamiliar to his Montreal ears. It was under a similar peaceful night sky he had heard loud footsteps along the cobblestone street marching toward his house, chanting “kill the Commies” and “kill the Jews.” The mob had stopped outside of his house. János, the blacksmith shouted, “This is Sándor Wolfstein’s house.” Tommy, Gabi and their parents ran to the window. The three blacksmiths were out in front, facing the mob. “No one is going in! No one is going to touch them!” He remembered old Attila barking.

  Tommy stood, took a deep breath and under a starlit Hajdubékes night, slowly, faultlessly, recited the poem “Lullaby” by Attila Josef he had memorized eleven years ago.

  53

  A strange sound startled Tommy awake. For a minute he didn’t know what it was or where he was. He sat up, trying to orient himself. He was in Békes. A rooster was crowing.

  “Good morning,” he said as he walked into the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Emma replied. Her back was to him and she was preparing breakfast. Water was boiling on the wood stove. “You boys go sit; I’ll bring you breakfast.”

  “Are you okay?” Gabi asked.

  Emma brought out the plate of sliced peppers, cheese, salami, boiled eggs and fresh pogácsa. It had been a long time since he had had this kind of breakfast. Breakfast in Canada was a fast affair. He was now a Canadian cereal-toast-and-coffee guy.

  “Gabi told me you had a bad dream. What was it about?”

  “I can’t remember. It was bits and pieces of being lost in the dark,” he said, not wanting to worry them.

  “Maybe being in Békes has brought back some old memories,” Emma said and made a spitting sound. His mother and his aunt made the same sounds when they cursed.

  Tommy nodded and bit into a hot, golden-crusted pogácsa. He leaned in to smell the fresh roses in the vase and then looked to the bushes. “Your roses have really grown. Let’s take a picture. Anyu will love to see them,” Tommy said and hobbled off to get his camera.

  Standing next to Emma in front of the bush, he put his arms around her.

  “Now, me and Gabi in front of the outhouse.”

  “No,” Emma said, “don’t be silly.”

  “Why not?” Gabi said. “Roses and shit.”

  “Gabi!” Emma scolded.

  The boys put their arms around each other’s shoulders and smiled. Tommy took a picture of the vegetable garden, the well and the chicken coop.

  After breakfast, while Emma washed dishes and Gabi stacked wood next to the stove and swept the verandah, Tommy wrote some postcards.

  Dear Marianne,

  I miss you. I’m in my hometown. But I’m not. Some of the buildings have friendly memories waving from their windows, some have fists. I know it’s corny but it’s true. I’ve been having strange dreams. I have so much to tell you, but this postcard is too small. So I’ll just say I love you and see you soon.

  Dear Anyu and Apu,

  Everything is going well. I am spending time with Gabi and Emma-mama. Things are great. I met the blacksmiths, Rabbi Stern and Coach Varga. They say hello. I will tell you more when I get home.

  Love.

  Dear Aunt Margit,

  I am eating some wonderful Hungarian food but it’s not as good as yours. I will tell you more when I get home.

  Love.

  Tommy laid down the pen. “I’m going to mail some postcards. Where can I get stamps?”

  “At the post office. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m a big boy,” he joked. I also want to walk around town and take some pictures.”

  “Be back by lunch,” Emma called after him.

  Gabi walked him to the gate. “Don’t get lost.”

  “If I do, I’ll ask the guy who was following us for directions.”

  Gabi put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “They’re not joking. You don’t know how serious they are. Be careful.”

  Tommy nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Lowering his voice, Gabi asked, “Do you still want to visit Frog this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  As he strolled, Tommy took pictures of fat geese waddling along the streets, young boys and girls filling buckets at the corner pump, a horse-drawn wagon filled with burlap bags of grain and huge stork nests nestled on chimneys. He photographed scenes that were from another time and another world, scenes that would have been the everyday had his family not left.

  The church, the tallest structure in town, was on the left side of the square. He craned his neck to see the small windows below the belfry and the clock. He’d been up there once with his father when it was his father’s turn for fire-watch duty. His father showed him the world from there: Hajdudobos, the nearest village six kilometres away, the Hajdubékes Golden Green, the collective farm that had once belonged to Gabi’s family, and the cemetery where his grandfather was buried. Though he had been so much higher and seen so much more since that time, at this moment he still believed that the church lookout was the tallest place in the
world. He tried the door but it was locked. Maybe it was for the best. He took a picture of it instead. When he aimed the camera at Kossuth’s statue in the middle of the square, he peered around to see if there were any men in fedoras. There were but they were staring, it seemed, more out of curiosity than surveillance.

  He took a picture of what used to be his father’s hardware store and was now a bookstore. It felt strange entering the place after so many years. He was the only customer. The four clerks, all young women about Marianne’s age, were wearing identical indigo lab coats just like Mr. Papp’s. One was sitting at the cash, smoking as she flipped through a magazine. The others were dusting books in a way that would have made Mr. Papp fire them immediately.

  He was surprised to find books by Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Dickens, Shakespeare, Balzac, Hugo, Zola and Petöfi, his mother’s favourite poet. Békes didn’t strike him as a cultured place. There were also books by Marx, Engels and Mao Tse Tung as well as children’s books; Ali Baba and The Forty Thieves, books about Huszars, Hajdus, Young Pioneers, and, of course, The Paul Street Boys. And laid out in the glass display cases, like artifacts from another century, were nibbed pens, ink bottles, blotting papers and wooden pencil cases. They were from a time that now belonged in his memory museum. One memory was the night before his first day of school, his mother at the kitchen table, wrapping his notebooks in brown butcher’s paper, gluing labels with his name inscribed on them in her beautiful handwriting.

  He bought a copy of Petöfi’s poems for his mother, a key chain with a soccer ball dangling from it for his father and, for Marianne, a notebook that had the printed and cursive alphabet at the top of each alternating page.

  “You’re Földember Gabi’s cousin from America,” the girl at the cash said.

  “Yes. From Canada.”

  She leaned in close as she took the money. “Do you have any nylons?”

  Tommy looked around at the girls, who were all watching him intently. “No,” he said almost sharply. “Can you tell me where the post office is?”

  The cashier glanced at the others and shook her head. They returned to their dusting. “Over there,” she muttered under breath. She pointed to City Hall across the square, picked up her cigarette and went back to her magazine.

  Although it was only two stories high, the cavernous building was still as foreboding as a giant’s palace. He hesitated before reaching for the large brass handles. The last time he had been there his parents were applying for a visa to leave the country. It was here that he’d seen his father stand up to a man who’d called him a traitor. It was here he heard the words concentration camp for the first time.

  The ceiling was still high, the counter with the wickets was still long and in spite of the lineup, it was as quiet as a principal’s waiting room. He still felt small in it.

  “Three stamps for postcards to Canada, please.”

  A woman with a stern face handed him a piece of paper with a number on it and told him to wait until his number was called.

  “But all I want are three stamps.”

  “Your number will be called,” she said curtly. She wasn’t used to people talking back to her. She signalled for the next person. Tommy went to sit with the others on the hard bench that ran along the wall.

  “Making people wait is a way to control you,” his father had once told him. He was talking about his time in Mauthausen. “It’s a way to make you feel powerless.” Maybe it was why his parents were upset whenever he was late.

  Tommy watched the old grandfather clock pendulum swing back and forth.

  “Wolfstein Tamás.”

  He almost jumped. A police officer was standing beside him.

  “Wolfstein Tamás,” he said again.

  Tommy stood. “Yes?” he answered nervously.

  “Come with me.”

  “Why?”

  The police officer gently but firmly prodded him. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched. Tommy rose and followed him. The officer’s shoes clicked across the granite floor. They paused in front of another wicket.

  “Give him your ticket,” the officer said to Tommy. “Tell him what you want.”

  The man behind the wicket reached into his drawer and gave him three stamps. “Three forints,” he said.

  “Now come this way,” the officer said. He pointed at a door that said Chief of Police.

  “Sit here.” He pointed to a bench and left.

  A few minutes later, a man in a suit and tie came out from the office. He had a smoothly shaven face and a neatly trimmed moustache. He extended his hand to Tommy. “Little Tamás,” he said.

  Noticing Tommy’s confusion, he smiled. “Of course, you don’t remember me. Barna László. I was a good friend of your father’s. My wife worked with your mother at the Nylon. Your dad and I often went to soccer games together. I remember you and Gabi standing beside us, jumping up and down during the games.” He motioned Tommy into his office.

  Tommy’s heartbeat slowed down to almost normal. His stomach settled.

  “Sit. How are your father and mother?”

  “They’re very well. Thank you.”

  “I am glad to hear that. I was worried when your mother’s Identification Book was sent to me. I was asked to investigate your family’s disappearance.”

  Tommy wasn’t sure what to say.

  “How are you liking your visit in your hometown?”

  “It’s nice to see my aunt and cousin.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you play, but I heard that your games went well and that you and Gabi played really well.”

  Tommy studied Chief Barna, not sure if he was being sarcastic.

  “I’ve read about your exploits,” the chief continued. Feri writes highly of you in the paper.”

  “Who?”

  “Papp Ferenc.”

  Tommy was surprised. “You know him?”

  “We went to university together. We keep in touch. Too bad you aren’t playing for your motherland.”

  “Yes,” he said. He wanted to add that it wasn’t his fault but thought better of it. “Yes, I always dreamed of playing for Hungary like Puskás.”

  “I’ve been told that you haven’t registered yet.”

  The sudden change of topic made Tommy anxious again. “I was planning to after I bought the stamps,” he lied.

  The chief nodded. “How long are you staying?”

  “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  “Does your father ever think of coming back?”

  “I’ve never asked him.” He had often heard his father declare his love for Canada, calling it the greatest country in the world. He’d also heard his mother use her favourite curse when talking about Hungary. “I don’t think so.”

  “What about you?”

  He was taken aback by the question. It had never occurred to him. “I could never leave them. And I’m a Canadian now,” he added.

  “You are right. A child should always be there for his parents. But you would be very welcome here, I guarantee it.” The chief studied him in silence. Then he stood, shook Tommy’s hand and led him out of the office. “Give my best to your mother and father. Your father and I were good friends. I miss him. Here is my address if he wants to write to me.” He slipped him a piece of paper.

  Tommy was walking toward the wicket to register, reading the card, when he got bumped and dropped it. He was about to apologize when a gruff voice asked, “Do Jews still eat dirt?”

  He looked up. Szeles had an ugly smile on his face. He saluted and walked on.

  Tommy felt lightheaded. Outside, he stopped. Without thinking, he walked toward the man in a fedora sitting on a bench facing City Hall. He sat down next to him. The man stood up and walked away. Tommy watched people come and go as if nothing had happened.

  Tommy stopped in front of
the schoolyard. He saw his seven-year-old self there, after being kicked out by Mrs. Gombás. Szeles and his gang were standing around the bike rack smiling. Tommy eyed each of them. They turned their gazes toward his bike, the beautiful bike his father had brought for him from Budapest, on which he became a brave Hajdu riding to fight the terrible Turks. Its tires were slashed. The bright red enamel on the crossbar had been scraped away, the chain was off and coated with dirt and its Superla logo was missing. “You stupid animal!” he had screamed, charging. He took Szeles by surprise. They fell to the ground. Tommy fought to stay on top. He punched Szeles as hard as he could. Blood spurted from Szeles’s nose. Tommy hit him repeatedly.

  “I won’t cry. I won’t cry!” he shouted.

  Szeles threw him off and rolled over onto him, pinning Tommy’s arms with his legs. Szeles’s blood dripped onto Tommy’s face as Szeles hit him and spat on him.

  “Jews! Jews! Dirty Jews! Jews eat dirt,” he taunted, stuffing a handful of dirt down Tommy’s throat. Tommy twisted his head but Szeles had him by the hair. “Jews eat dirt. Dirty Jews eat dirt!” Szeles was howling.

  “What took you so long?” a worried Emma asked. She was sitting on the verandah darning socks. His mother used to darn socks in their early days in Canada, but he hadn’t seen her do it in years. She just threw them out now. It was one of the luxuries she allowed herself. He himself was Canadian in the sense that he lost pens, crumpled up half-used sheets of paper and left half-eaten sandwiches at restaurants without thinking twice about them. Emma rose, gathered the socks, put the darning egg and needle carefully back into her basket and placed it on a shelf.

  Tommy sat down next to Gabi, who was reading the Hungarian People’s Sports Daily. “I wandered around and took pictures,” he told Emma. He glanced at the paper. “Any big sports news?”

  “Nothing since we played you guys,” Gabi joked.

  “So, where did you go on your secret journey?” Gabi asked while Emma set the table.

  “I went to mail the postcards. God, the bureaucracy required to buy stamps.” He put his foot up on the bench, glad to get the weight off his ankle.