It sounded very idyllic—a cabin at the edge of a lake. Gabi and I took the train down and trudged with our bags the few miles from the train station to the cabin. When we got there, we found that the cabin was just one room with some rough bunk beds in it—and nothing else. There was no stove, no table, no chairs, and no running water. Outside there was a pump and an outhouse that smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in years. That was it.
But a path led to the lake nearby, where there was a rickety boat dock with a big old rowboat tied up to it. The shoreline was a forest of reeds. No other houses or people were in sight. It was all ours.
We quickly settled into a routine. Every morning, we walked along a footpath into town to pick up provisions. We purchased fresh milk from a little dairy, bought fresh bread from a bakery, and picked up sausages and apples. Milk, bread, sausage, and apples made up our diet for the week.
We spent the rest of each day from morning to dusk out on the lake in the rowboat, returning to the cabin only to eat and sleep. Other than the occasional fisherman, we didn't see anyone. We rowed, mostly the two of us at the oars because it was a big clunky boat and it took a lot of effort to move it along. When we got to the middle of the lake, one of us would jump in the water and swim alongside the boat while the other one rowed. Or we would just lie on our backs in the rowboat in the middle of the lake and talk and look up at the sky.
One time when we were lying on our backs, aimlessly floating around, two military planes flew by just above the water level. They were followed a second later by a horrendous roar. We scrambled onto our knees and looked after the planes. We had never seen jets before. After a moment, Gabi said, “The next war won't be fun.”
We saw the planes only that one time. The rest of the week was quiet, the weather was good, and the surface of the lake was usually like a mirror, disturbed only by our movements.
The lake was about ten miles long and a couple of miles wide. One day, I set out to swim across it. It took me the better part of an afternoon. Gabi rowed the boat near me, so I felt comfortable swimming in the middle of the big lake, and I just swam and swam almost in a trance. What seemed like hours later, I reached the reeds at the other side of the lake. I clambered into the boat, feeling a little weak and shaky but proud of myself. I had come a long way since struggling across the irrigation ditch at the vineyard.
The school year started a couple of weeks later. As I faced my fourth year, I became more and more focused on what I was going to do after graduation. About half of my class intended to go on to university. So did I.
Getting admitted to university meant the difference between embarking on a professional career and being relegated to an unskilled job. It meant the difference between doing only a month's compulsory military service in the army reserves each year and being drafted into the infantry for two years. I didn't know much about life in the army, but after hearing my father's stories, I wanted to have as little to do with it as possible. Getting admitted to university would make a huge difference in all parts of my life.
This was a crucial year. At the end of it, I would take the final exams to graduate from gymnasium and the entrance exams to enter university. These exams were a big deal, and performing well on both was a necessary condition for being admitted to university. But they weren't the only factor.
University admission was heavily based on the student's family background. The highest preference was given to students who came from worker families or whose parents were members of the Communist Party. Second preference was given to those who came from peasant stock. Third preference was for those whose parents were professional people. And last preference was for those whose parents didn't fit any of those categories and were therefore labeled “other.”
There was also a category for “class aliens,” the sons and daughters of parents who previously had businesses that employed other workers. Employing others, in the language of Marxism, was called “exploiting them.” Students whose parents were exploiters would have a very tough time getting into any university.
My parents didn't fit into the worker, the peasant, or the professional category, so the question was whether I would be classified as “other” or whether my father's former dairy ownership would put me in the “class alien” category.
I couldn't take university for granted.
There was nothing I could do about my ancestry, so I concentrated on reviewing four years' worth of math, physics, chemistry, history, and literature with an eye toward the exams. Nobody had their mind on the fourth-year courses—neither the teachers nor the students. The end was in sight, so the attention of those students who were university-bound focused on preparing for the exams. Everyone focused on getting ready for life outside of Madach.
The week at Lake Velence had left me with the desire to continue doing something with boats and water. Once I had settled into the rhythm of studying for my final exams, I asked around and found out that there was a kayaking club located on Margaret Island. In late fall, Gabi and I enrolled in their beginner's course. (I had lost interest in fencing when I realized that I would never break out of the lower echelons of the competitive ranks.) This was a lot less enjoyable than the rowboat in Lake Ve-lence.
We didn't even get to sit in a kayak. Instead, we perched on stationary seats in a trough of water in a cold, damp concrete building and practiced paddling. Six or eight seats were lined up in each trough, one right behind the other, so at first we constantly got our double-bladed paddles tangled up with that of the person in front or back while a coach yelled at us. We quickly learned to paddle in unison.
When we weren't paddling in the stationary seats, we practiced lifting and carrying the kayaks from racks in the warehouse to the shore and back. The kayaks were fragile shells of wood that could be easily damaged if they were banged on the doorway of the storage house, dropped on the docks, or bumped against other kayaks. There was one right way to handle them and many wrong ways, and we had to keep practicing under the watchful eye and loud comments of the coach until we did it just the right way. We learned to lift single kayaks, double kayaks, and kayaks that would take four people. We didn't actually get to sit in a kayak and paddle in the Danube until well into the spring.
One day at home, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror without a shirt on. Much to my delight, I noticed that I had muscles. I had finally lost my remaining chubbiness.
In the spring, we started practicing in the Danube River. The Danube was a big river with a strong current. The weather was cold and gray, and so was the water. Using the skills we learned in the incessant practice sessions, Gabi and I put our double kayak in the water, then slid into the seats and pushed off from the dock. Immediately, the current grabbed us and tried to sweep us backward. But once we started paddling, we overcame the force of the current and started moving upstream. There was great satisfaction in feeling our own strength.
A normal practice consisted of paddling around Margaret Island. We always started off by going upstream; then, when we reached the tip of the island, we turned and let the river sweep us downstream on the other side of the island. Paddling into the current past the tip of the island was hard. We were paddling against the full force of the open river, and making the turn was a delicate maneuver. We let the kayak come to a stop, held the stern steady while the force of the water swung the bow around, then felt a sudden acceleration as the current picked us up and swept us downstream. It never ceased to be a thrilling moment.
Adding to the thrill was the presence of a skeet shooting range at the tip of the island. The shooters were hidden from view, but we could see the clay pigeons being tossed in the air and we could hear the shots and watch the disks shatter above us, the fragments flying this way and that. In addition to keeping an eye on the current, we had to keep an eye on flying bits of clay.
One time I was in a single kayak rounding the tip of the island, and as I was about to turn into the current, one of these clay pieces burst right over
my head. I instinctively ducked, and the next moment I found myself submerged in the water, being swept rapidly down the river. My training came in handy. Even as I fell out of the kayak, I hung on to my paddle with one hand and grabbed the side of the boat with the other. When I surfaced, I furiously kicked toward shore. Every time I tried to stand up, the current swept me off my feet. I finally struggled upright in water that barely reached my knees. Then I bailed out my kayak, got back in, and paddled like a madman to catch up with the rest of my group.
At the southern tip of the island there was a big bridge connecting the island to Buda on one side and Pest on the other. (It was the bridge where the bus accident had occurred.) This was where we turned to complete the circuit around the island. We learned to sneak into an eddy behind a pillar of the bridge where the water was calm and the current practically stationary, take a rest, get set, then punch out of the eddy and attack the current again. It was very exciting.
Our club competed in a number of kayak races with other clubs. Gabi and I entered in the beginner doubles race. I wasn't any better at competitive kayaking than I had been at fencing. All our best efforts got us to the finish line not quite at the end of the bunch, but at least we weren't last.
In late spring, the kayaking club took a weekend tour up the Danube. We crossed the river from Margaret Island to paddle in the quieter water next to the shore. Barges and passenger ships blasted their horns at us, and we bounced in their wakes. The coach and his helper followed along in a little motorboat. After a while, we were paddling by farmland. I didn't pay much attention to the scenery. I had to concentrate on not tipping over.
After hours and hours of paddling upstream, we finally arrived at our campsite. We slept on tarps on the ground in the open. We were dead tired, but between the hard ground and the clouds of mosquitoes nibbling at us all night, no one got much sleep. The next morning, we got up early and got going again. I was irritated that I couldn't scratch my mosquito bites while I was paddling.
The trip was generally uneventful, with one exception. There was one girl kayaker in the club. When the coach and his helper set up their campsite a short distance away from us, they invited the girl to join them. Later, they invited her to join them in a ride on their motorboat. We had no idea what might be going on, but we were all jealous.
I had had no girlfriend since Eva from the literary club, but my interest in girls continued, albeit at a distance. One day, my friend Peter told me that he had made it with a prostitute. He re- ported on it in great detail. He wasn't exactly exuberant about the experience, but he encouraged me to try it nonetheless.
It didn't sound appealing and I was nervous, but my curiosity overwhelmed my hesitation. Peter gave me an address and assured me that the woman would be expecting me. With considerable trepidation, I set off one Sunday morning to walk to the appointed place. In my pocket was the sum Peter had indicated. I had taken it from my parents' communal kitty.
Several times I wanted to turn and go home, but I forced myself to march on. As I practiced what I would say when I got there, my trepidation turned into apprehension and the apprehension into overwhelming nervousness. By the time I mounted the stairway to the third-floor apartment, I was swallowing harder and harder. Finally, I arrived at the apartment and rang the bell. After some minutes, the door was opened by a scrawny, middle-aged woman. Her hair was unkempt and she was wearing a wrinkled bathrobe and, it seemed, not much else. The bathrobe wasn't tied around her waist, and she clutched the edges together with her hands. She stared at me. I stared at her. Before I had a chance to explain who I was and who sent me, she told me that she was busy and I should come back later. Then she shut the door in my face.
I felt a great rush of relief. I returned home in a much better mood than I had left and replaced the money in my parents' bureau. I never went back.
The end of the school year came, and with it the dreaded graduation exams. I accelerated my preparations. I stayed home every chance I had and studied incessantly. Our apartment was being painted during the last few weeks before the exams, so I had to scurry from room to room to stay out of the painter's way. My parents were both at work, so it was only the painter and me at home.
I envied the painter. From my vantage point, he had a finite job; when he was done painting a room, his task was finished. My task, on the other hand, was infinite; whenever I thought I had finished studying a subject, I would start all over again and discover parts I had missed.
The painter must have been observing me, too. At first, he had ignored me, as if we were two strangers doing our jobs in a common space. The only time we talked was when he asked me to move so he could put a dropcloth over some furniture. But as the days progressed and he watched me study and worry, he actually grew sympathetic. He was still painting our apartment the day of the actual test. When I left, he called down from his ladder and wished me kalap szart (“a hatful of shit”). I looked startled. He explained that this was the strongest way to wish someone good luck. His comment echoed in my mind all the way to school.
When I arrived at school, I found our classroom completely rearranged. A line of desks stretched across the middle of the classroom. All of our fourth-year teachers sat behind the barricade. Behind them were representatives of the Ministry of Education, who were there to audit and supervise the proceedings. The students stood outside in the corridor, waiting to be called in one by one to stand in front of the inquisition and answer questions.
Each day a few of us were called to appear, some scheduled for the morning and some scheduled for the afternoon. The exam took about an hour for each student. While we waited our turn, some people affected nonchalance, chatting about anything but the exam. I didn't feel like participating in their banter, so I stood away by myself and was quiet.
Finally, my name was called. I was nervous. But once I faced my teachers I saw goodwill in their eyes. I realized that they wanted me to do well, and that helped me immensely. I was asked questions covering just about every subject we had studied in gymnasium. I knew the answers to all of them, and I felt I did well. I got the results a few weeks later. I had passed with flying colors.
With the long-awaited torture of the final exam over at last, there was only one more task to fulfill at gymnasium: the graduation ceremony.
It was held in the courtyard, the scene of uncounted physical education classes, an even larger number of daily recess breaks, and an occasional talking-to by the principal. Now the battered arena was set up with a podium and neat rows of chairs, which were filling up with friends and relatives. My mother came and so did my aunt Manci.
True to itself to the last minute, the A class had planned a prank worthy of its reputation. Dressed in our best Sunday suits, we all arrived by taxi. Taxis were rare in Budapest. I don't think I'd ridden in one since the war. It was quite a job to find a sufficient number of them and coordinate things so that our class, three or four kids squeezed into each taxi, could arrive at the beat-up old building at the same time. As we got out of the taxis, we each donned white sheets. We then walked around the courtyard like a bunch of ghosts, sneaking up to people, startling them, and shattering the solemn decorum of the occasion, much to the consternation of the teachers and our principal.
I stole away for a minute to carve my name on a brick at the side of the schoolyard. Then it was time for the graduation ceremony.
Somebody hollered at us to get rid of the sheets—and, for once, we obeyed. We were handed the traditional little six-inch wooden sticks with tiny cloth bags hung on one end, like a miniature hobo's kit. We held them over our shoulders as a sym- bol of setting out into the world. We were herded into a formal line, and all the graduating classes processed around the courtyard and down to the front rows of seats. Then we sat down to listen to a bunch of speeches.
Afterward, we gathered around with our teachers for photographs. We solemnly shook hands with each other. Then we went on our separate ways. Gymnasium was officially over.
I
left the courtyard with mixed feelings. I had had many fun times during the last four years and I'd had a few wonderful teachers, but for the most part I hadn't liked my class or the school. I was glad to leave it.
The story of the A class wasn't quite over yet, though. A few of the rowdier boys organized a night on the town to celebrate graduation. I decided not to join them. That turned out to be a good idea. The next day I heard that the group drank too much. On their way home, they were carousing and singing at the top of their lungs and got picked up by the police. The police manhandled and slapped them around before releasing them to their parents. It was an experience I was glad to have missed.
I was completely preoccupied with whether I would be admitted to university. Shortly after the final exam at gymnasium, I had taken the entrance exams for the university. These, too, were oral tests conducted by a panel of faculty members. In addition to asking questions about chemistry, physics, and math, they questioned me about Soviet history and literature. It was advisable to know something of Soviet literature, even though it wasn't required at gymnasium. Luckily, I had read the books they mentioned— And Quiet Flows the Don and other popular novels by famous Soviet authors. I thought I did well on the test, but I feared that my background was going to keep me out.
I had applied to the natural sciences branch of the University of Budapest. You were allowed to apply to only one school. I wanted to study chemistry, and the University of Budapest was the most prestigious academic institution for pure sciences. However, rumor had it that the chemistry class would be small— only twenty or so students. That made the odds of my getting in even smaller.
Swimming Across: A Memoir Page 16