Home Game

by Endre Farkas

  “You don’t have a choice about being born. You don’t have choice to whom you are born. Or the world you are born into. You are a victim of those circumstances. But what is optional is the way you live in it. Victim or victor?”

  Tommy sensed that he was speaking not only about himself but about his people.

  “I have learned that those of us who are fortunate enough or cursed enough to see and think must try. Otherwise we will be choked to death.” He turned to Rosie, who was still glaring at Tommy.

  Tommy tried to take it all in.

  “Therefore, I write.” He took a swig. “What is your life like?” Broshkoy asked.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess it’s good.”

  “It can’t really be that good if you haven’t thought about it. Have you read Socrates?”

  “No.”

  “You should,” Broshkoy said in a way that made Tommy uncomfortable. After a long silence he added, “I have a task for you. I want you to take my poems to Canada and get them translated and published.” It wasn’t a request.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s important for my people.”

  “Do you know somebody who can translate them?” Tommy asked.

  “You,” he said.

  “My Hungarian is not good enough.”

  “Make it good enough,” Broshkoy said calmly, as if what he had told Tommy to do was as simple as getting a glass of water.

  Tommy turned to Gabi for guidance as he had often done when they were kids. Gabi was the older one, the one who made the decisions. But Gabi was pokerfaced. It’s crazy, Tommy thought to himself. What a stupid thing to get into trouble for. “What difference can a poem make?” Tommy asked Broshkoy.

  “A world of difference,” Broshkoy said quietly.

  Tommy thought for a moment. He thought of Marianne. He nodded.

  “He’s not so young now,” Rosie said, and scrambled up the oak tree under which their carpet lay. She came down with an old briefcase that she gave to Broshkoy. He took out a sheaf of papers and handed it to Tommy. There was a handwritten essay and about two dozen poems. Tommy scanned the first one but couldn’t really understand it. He folded the papers and slipped them in his jacket’s inside pocket.

  “We should be going,” Gabi said. “Don’t forget, we’re meeting Carrot tonight at the Nylon. Be there.”

  His skinny, bug-eyed childhood friend made Tommy consider his own purpose in this world. He’d been letting life move him along. He had that luxury. Broshkoy and Gabi didn’t. There was a weight they carried that he didn’t. It was in their talk; in the way they considered every word. It was in the way they carried themselves, always attuned to their surroundings. As Gabi said, here you lived a watched life. But Tommy sensed something else as well. The weight also seemed to have made their life more meaningful. It made them appreciate the value of it, how it meant nothing and everything. And as they walked back silently to Békes, into a setting sun, Tommy changed his mind. His life was easy, which didn’t necessarily make it good. It made it simpler. Although since he met Marianne, it had certainly become more intense and complicated. Maybe that was what being grown up was all about.

  He was already having second thoughts about smuggling out Broshkoy’s manuscript. How could he have made such a stupid promise? He remembered Mr. Luxton’s warnings about taking letters out of the country. What did Tommy really know of what went on in this country? What would happen to him if he got caught? He wasn’t in Canada. Whom could he trust here? Even Gabi admitted that he had been asked to spy on him. Who knew if he wasn’t doing it now? Was he being set up? He could throw the papers away once he left Békes. Aside from people like that woman-stealing poet in Montreal, who would care about a Hungarian Gypsy poet’s poem? Maybe Marianne?

  As they approached the house, they could hear music wafting from the kitchen. Gabi put a finger to his lips and signalled Tommy to follow him quietly. Emma was humming while she cut up potatoes and plopped them in the pot. Stirring, she swayed her hips to the rhythm.

  “We’re back,” Gabi announced.

  Emma jumped and clasped her chest. “Are you insane?” she shouted and swatted him with the spoon. Gabi was laughing.

  “Get out of here! Scaring your poor mother to death.” Emma turned to Tommy. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not yet. I’m pooped. My ankle is still sore. I’m going to take a nap, okay?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you want me to wake you up?” Gabi asked.

  “If I’m not up in an hour.”

  “Okay,” Gabi mimicked Tommy.

  Tommy stood for a moment on the verandah, looking out over his childhood playground, and wondered what would have become of him if his family had not left. Would he be a hot soccer prospect, would he be a good Hungarian? Would he be a troublemaker? He sighed and reached up to the shelf and took Emma’s sewing basket into his room.

  He laid his blazer on his lap and carefully slipped his knife’s blade tip through the thread in the middle of the lining. He picked at it the way his mother did and opened the seam about six inches. He slipped in Broshkoy’s manuscript. Patting it flat, he lifted the jacket. The papers settled in a bunch at the bottom, making the back lumpy He laid the jacket down again, reshuffled the papers and sewed the lining on either side of the papers to the back of the jacket, making a pocket for them. With his back to the mirror, he twisted his neck to see if he could detect any major bulges. It looked passable. But he knew his mother would have made him do it again. So, he did. When he was finished, he hung up the jacket and crawled into bed.

  The darkness of his sleep became a land of mud in which he was being chased by shadows. He tried to run, but the mud was sucking him down. The darkness began to spin. He felt as if he were in a whirlpool, spinning out of control as he was being sucked down. In circles, in circles, in circles he went. There was a light he could never get to. He stretched out his hand but there was no hand to hold onto. In circles, in circles he spun.

  Gabi’s knock stopped the spinning. Tommy sat up and held his head between his palms. He took a couple of deep breaths and rubbed his temple. He hoped that it wasn’t a migraine coming on.

  It was his last night in Békes and Emma had prepared her delicious chicken paprika. And for dessert, of course, pogácsa.

  “I vaguely remember that in one of the books Anyu read to me, there was a boy setting off to fight the giant or ogre and his mother put pogácsa in his knapsack. Is it true? Or am I just imagining it?”

  “I don’t remember a story like that,” Gabi said, “but I know it’s a Hungarian tradition. Every time a child graduates, the mother gives him a little bag of pogácsa.”

  Tommy put his lips to it as if he were kissing Marianne for the first time, letting its heat warm his lips. He took a small bite and closed his eyes.

  “So like your father,” Emma said, smiling. “How I miss him.”

  “We should go. I told Carrot that we would meet him around nineteen thirty.”

  54

  The Nylon bar reeked of cigarettes and beer. It was crowded, mainly with young men, shouting, laughing and drinking away the week’s work.

  He felt self-conscious in his tailored team jacket and slim tie. The locals’ were ill-fitting and shabby, and the ties were wide and sloppily knotted. I’m looking with my mother’s eyes, he thought to himself.

  A muscled young red-headed man in a sharply pressed army uniform was waving at them from a table near the bar. The Carrot Tommy remembered was a skinny kid in patched shorts who was one of the regulars he played soccer with after school. His father was the train stationmaster and the official scorekeeper for the Békes soccer team. Carrot, along with Broshkoy, was the only one who continued to play with Tommy and Gabi after Tommy was kicked out of school.

  They shook hands formally. Tommy removed his jacket, put it
on the back of his chair, loosened his tie and ordered a round. They reminisced about the good old days.

  Tommy put down his glass. “Do you still think we killed Christ?” he asked.

  “What?” Carrot asked, puzzled.

  “I remember once being called a Christ killer. I didn’t know what the kid was talking about. I asked Gabi because he was older, and I thought he knew everything,” Tommy smiled as he looked at Gabi. “He said that you had told him that the Jews killed Christ and that’s why they’re hated so much. I was wondering if you still think that?”

  Carrot lifted his glass of beer and sipped.

  “You remember strange things,” Gabi said, trying to break the tension.

  “The visit with Broshkoy made that memory jump into my head.”

  “I honestly don’t remember saying that, but I’ve heard my father say it, so I might have.”

  “Do you still think so?”

  He paused. “I don’t really know. I haven’t read the Bible and I don’t go to church, so I really don’t know. And I don’t really care.”

  Tommy smiled.

  “What’s funny?” Gabi asked.

  “There’s a waiter in Montreal whose name is Jesus. In case you still believed it, I just wanted to let you know that he is alive and well.”

  For a moment, Carrot and Gabi said nothing, then they all burst out laughing.

  “Frog’s here,” Carrot said, waving to him. He was carrying a package and pushing his way through the crowd. Even though he was small and skinny, he parted the bodies with authority. Tommy hoped that the package was not another thing Broshkoy wanted him to smuggle out of Hungary.

  “We haven’t all been together since 1956. Eleven years,” Carrot said.

  Broshkoy toasted the group. “To eleven lost years. May tonight bring them back. To your health.”

  “To your health,” they responded.

  “I brought you something,” Broshkoy said to Tommy. He handed him the package wrapped in newspaper and tied with a string.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “How can you thank me if you haven’t seen what I am giving you?”

  It felt a bit heavy. Tommy nervously untied the string, gave it to Gabi and unwrapped the paper. It was a beautiful shawl. Tommy didn’t understand why he would give him a shawl.

  Broshkoy had to shout to make himself heard. “Open it.”

  Something was rolled up inside. Tommy couldn’t believe it. It was his sword! The one the blacksmiths had made for him all those years ago. He ran his fingers over the dragon head handle, down the shiny blade to the sharp tip.

  “Thank you,” he shouted, holding it in salute.

  “So, the dirty traitors are here,” growled a voice. Tommy turned and saw a drunk-eyed Szeles standing behind him.

  “You’re drunk. Go back to your buddies,” Gabi said.

  “Fuck you, traitor Jew. You betrayed your motherland for your fucking Jew cousin. This place is only for true Hungarians,” he said, slurring his words.

  “Shut your ignorant mouth,” Broshkoy snapped.

  “Dirty Gypsies don’t talk like that to a Hungarian. The fucking Jew and the fucking Gypsy.” He shoved Tommy hard, sending him and beer glasses flying. Then he grabbed Broshkoy and threw him down onto the floor.

  “You horse’s prick,” Carrot shouted and punched Szeles, who spun and fell toward Tommy and Broshkoy. Szeles landed between the two, face down. A loud, piercing scream filled Tommy’s ears.

  Time stopped.

  When the police arrived, the crowd that had formed around Tommy and Broshkoy parted. Chief Barna knelt over the body. Bile was mixed with the blood on Szeles’s chest. Chief Barna sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “What happened here?” he asked.

  “Tommy threw up on him,” Carrot said.

  “Good God,” the chief said, noticing the bloody sword lying beside him. “Whose is that?”

  “It’s mine,” Tommy and Broshkoy answered at once.

  “It can’t belong to both of you,” he said sternly.

  “It was Tomi’s when he was a kid,” Gabi said. “Frog has had it since Tomi left. He was giving it back to him.”

  Tommy stared at his hands.

  “All four of you are coming with me.” Chief Barna nodded to the policeman to escort them to the station. He ordered the other officer to collect statements and stay with the body.

  Tommy and Broshkoy sat between Gabi and Carrot. A policeman stood next to them to make sure that nobody talked. Tommy’s mouth tasted vile; his stomach churned.

  After what seemed forever, they had taken Carrot, Gabi and Broshkoy into the office. Police Chief Barna emerged and signalled to the guard. The officer prodded Tommy, who was rubbing at the dried blood on his palm, a brownish stain fading into his skin, leaving just its outline. He stood and followed the guard.

  “Tamás, come in,” the chief said.

  The officer prodded him again.

  “I’ve had enough of him. Get him out of here,” the man in the suit said to Chief Barna.

  Tommy, too numb with fatigue to feel relieved, turned to leave.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the man in the dark suit shouted.

  Tommy faced Chief Barna.

  “You are under arrest,” the Chief said.

  “What?” Tommy yelled. A rush of adrenalin woke him.

  Two officers escorted him downstairs into the basement of City Hall, where there were four metal doors. The guard opened the first, pushed him in and shut it behind him. The slam of metal on metal made him jump. He spun around and faced the door. His heart raced but he was unable to move. He felt short of breath. He didn’t know what to do. He listened. Breathe, he heard himself say. A dim overhead light bulb made shadows of the corners. The walls glistened. He took tentative steps, reached out and touched one. He jerked his hand back and rubbed the slime on his pants. His foot struck something metallic. He recoiled and looked down. A bucket was sticking out from beneath the cot. He sat.

  Even though the mattress was damp and stank of piss, he was glad to be sitting. The light went out. He panicked. He clenched his hands, ready to ward off any attack. He wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. The walls and the darkness closed in on him.

  55

  He was scared. This wasn’t real. He wanted his parents. But they weren’t here. They were in another world and couldn’t help him. They didn’t even know that he was in jail. His mother had warned him. He was on his own now. There was Gabi and Emma-mama and Aunt Magda and his grandfather, but what could they do? They were Hungarians. They had no power. He panicked and started to shake. He sat down and grabbed the edge of the cot. He squeezed hard and tried to take deep breaths. He rubbed his face and forehead. He felt his scar. A migraine was coming on. He rubbed deeper and harder as wave after wave of blood flooded the base of his neck and moved up over his brain, tightening his scalp, crashing against his temple and pressing at the back of his eyes, wanting out. He passed out.

  The bare bulb exploded with light. Tommy jumped up from the cot. He was still in the same cell with the same frightening shadows as yesterday. He was in one of his nightmare mazes with no way out. But this one was for real. The heavy metal door looked impenetrable. His head was still pounding.

  The door opened. The guard came in and motioned him out.

  Tommy could barely get the words out. “Where are we going?”

  “No talking,” the guard said and pointed down the corridor.

  For a moment he thought that there was mirror at the end of the hall, but it was Broshkoy walking toward him followed by a guard. He had a large purplish welt on his cheek. He nodded. The guard pointed to the right. They came to an open space with a wide plank along the wall. It had four holes. Broshkoy was at one end, Tommy was at the other.

  “Go,” his guard said. At first Tom
my wasn’t sure what he meant. He saw Broshkoy drop his pants and sit. Tommy averted his eyes. The guard nudged him. “Go,” he said again.

  He shook his head. Tommy glanced at Broshkoy, who was wiping himself.

  The guard pointed back toward his cell. There was a tray with a bowl of greyish gruel, a spoon and a piece of rye bread on his bed. Sitting on the cot, he tried to make sense of all this. He had no idea what to do. This isn’t real, he said to himself, as he spooned the lukewarm gruel into his mouth.

  56

  Tommy listened. He heard a movement. Then nothing. Then he heard something again. He had no idea what time it was. The light had gone off twice since he’d last seen Broshkoy. He had to shit. He pulled the rusted bucket out from under the cot. It stank worse than the outhouse. He kicked it back under the cot with his foot. His ankle still hurt.

  The door opened. The guard stood at the door. Nobody spoke. A man in a blue overall picked up the tray. “Thank you,” Tommy said. “Get back!” the guard snapped and slammed the door. Tommy stood there, numb. Then the light went out. The world outside was gone. He was in darkness again.

  Something scuttled across his shoes. He stiffened. He swung his foot toward it. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you, motherfucker!” he swore as he kicked wildly at the dank air. He was playing blind soccer. He was kicking the man in the dark suit, the referee, the player who slashed his ankle, Mrs. Gombás, the drunk soldier, the men who stuffed the rabbi in the chicken coop and Szeles, father and son. He felt the depth of his parents’ hatred for this place. He thought about them and what they had gone through. He felt his parents’ fierceness. Anticipate, he told himself. He closed his eyes and listened. He kicked. A high-pitched screech pierced the silence followed by absolute silence.

  Fear and anger were his cellmates. The light turning on had become as scary as it being shut off. He sat on the cot with his head in his hands. The migraine persisted. Victim or victor? he heard the voice in his head ask.