Davis Going Home

Memoir of an Immigrant
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-2915-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten

It is the bitter-sweet story of the author's childhood experiences during the German and Russian occupations of Hungary, and of her four trying years as a young student in a hostile Germany. It tells of her family's cruel exile from their homeland, of their three-week hellish journey in a cramped, filth-ridden boxcar, their challenges in an unwelcoming country, and their unyielding belief in the American dream.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Davis, Martha

Leseproben

A Visit to My Hometown Morning light had just begun to replace the last shadows of night when we joined the crowd of daily commuters at the bus stop. The Bonyhád bus arrived promptly at six a.m., and it was obvious that its best years of service had long passed. It looked like a relic from the war. The green body of the vehicle was covered with mud up to the dirty half-open windows. The rotted-out sides of the steps made boarding a challenge as we squeezed through its jammed door. Luckily, we found the last two seats on an uncomfortable wooden bench in the rear of the bus that creaked underneath us as we maneuvered through the morning traffic. The flooring was cracked and dusty, and the loose ceiling lights reminded me of those on the airplane, and I hoped that these, too, would stay intact for the duration of the trip. Passengers who worked in the city got off at their stops as we drove across town, while others left us outside of the city limits. It would be less crowded when our no-frills bus reached the rural areas of its run, allowing us to see the sun come up over the quiet countryside from the front window. We noticed that our stops along this stretch of the road brought farmers on board who were going to market to sell their wares in other towns. This required us to share the bus with baskets of different varieties of vegetables and fruits, and caged poultry. Fortunately, we had changed seats closer to the front where we felt a bit removed from the menagerie. As the bus rolled on with its colorful passengers, most unexpectedly, a strong whiff of garlic filled the air and to our surprise, it was breakfast time. “Mama, I can’t believe that I’m seeing this large salami, a green pepper, and a whole loaf of bread on that man’s lap,” I said softly while carefully pointing out the offender on the other side. “Primitive, that’s what it is,” was her disapproving reply, as she sat up rigid and irritated in her seat. The pungent odor of food, the sounds of chickens clucking, geese hissing, and dust blowing through the windows created a stressful atmosphere. The trip was becoming annoying, although some passengers seemed unbothered by it and took it in stride; others like us wanted the trip to end as soon as possible. Maybe they were as American as we had become. “Bonyhád in ten minutes, the last and final stop,” announced the driver. Mama elbowed me and said, “Finally, the four-hour drive is ending,” and proceeded to scrutinize herself in her compact mirror for the momentous reunion. People were meeting relatives or friends and saying goodbye to those leaving as we pulled into the bus station parking lot, and my pulse quickened at the thought of being back in my hometown and that someone from my childhood was waiting for us. I turned to speak to Mama but spotted her at the head of the line exiting the bus, mystified at how she got away from me. I leaped out of my seat to join the line while trying to keep an eye on her through the window, but I lost sight of her in the crowd. In a panic, I searched for Mama from the top step of the bus when I thankfully saw her talking to a woman who I assumed to be Marika. “Erzsébet, Márta, welcome home,” Marika said excitedly as the three of us embraced. The anticipation of seeing each other after thirty-four years subsided into happy and comfortable feelings even though it was obvious that physically the years had changed us. The lovely teenage girl living across from us, whose friendly smile had not changed, was entering her fifties. Her then light brown hair was mostly gray, and she looked matronly and older than her years. My dear mother, although slightly bent, had embraced life in a positive way and still looked lovely in the autumn of her life. I had become a mature woman and wondered how I looked to Marika. “Márta, you’ve grown so,” she said jokingly; the three of us roared with laughter. “You look young and happy,” she said affectionately and then let out a cry, “Oh, my husband, János (John) is here, too. How could I forget you?” she remarked sheepishly before introducing him. János welcomed us cordially and then excused himself to get his car. We squeezed into his red compact Rumanian Skoda that took off before the doors closed. It felt like another joy ride as we flew down the streets of Bonyhád to their house, encountering every pothole on our way. It was only a few minutes before he made a wide turn into a driveway in a residential area, where he simultaneously put on the brakes and shut off the engine, throwing us to one side and then forward. Mama gave me that familiar look of relief as we awkwardly exited the back seat. For not maintaining the roads, I blamed the Russians. For my sore bottom, I blamed János. “Here we are,” János said nonchalantly, as he led us up the walkway bordered by colorful flowers. Four summer chairs sat tidily on the front porch of their one-story five-room stucco house – living room, two bedrooms, bath, and a large kitchen – where they had raised their two sons who now lived in nearby cities. Their home was nicely furnished and orderly. It reflected their personalities. She taught mathematics, and he was a history professor. The house felt pleasantly cool with all the screened windows open, yet, as we toasted our reunion with red Hungarian wine, the warm rays of the sun in the living room felt comfortable. Marika left us to see about lunch. As I glanced from across the hallway to the seating area of the kitchen, where I saw her happily flitting about, I felt an ache in my heart as she gave no indication of her battle with breast cancer. Admiringly, I glanced at a woman who had hope and determination. Elizabeth had told us of her illness, but we did not discuss it during our short visit. Marika had prepared our meal in advance, and in a short time, we feasted at the picnic-size table on kohlrabi soup, breaded veal cutlets, and cheese strudel and fruit tarts. János was a pleasant man of average height, with brown hair and a lean body. I imagine it was hard for him to keep fit since his wife was such a marvelous cook and baker. During lunch, we reminisced about the times of our youth before the German and the Russian invasions, and of personal tribulations and joys that spanned decades. A bit of local news entered the conversation when János told us that the school I attended had been turned into a storage facility by the government. “Oh, my goodness, that’s so sad. Where is school taught now?” I asked. “The convent is the elementary school,” János replied. I wanted to know more about this, but Mama told me it was time to leave. “Not before you see the garden,” János insisted. I had quickly learned to like this gentle, compassionate fifty-plus year-old man regardless of his driving. “The garden is my obsession in the summer,” János volunteered. “I plant it and give it care, while the flowers and vegetables are picked by my wife when they appear as if by magic.” He then put his arm around her waist and planted a kiss on her check. A tender moment openly shared, tearing at my heart. “Marika and János now we must leave,” Mama said again looking at her watch. It was a perfect summer day with the sun shining on us in their beautiful garden of flowers, fruits and vegetables, and yes, the birds and the bees. It was an island of bounty and peace. “Come back to Bonyhád again, and soon, then we can spend a few days together,” Marika said. “Márta will come back,” Mama assured them. We left them standing close together holding hands in the garden as we began our re-acquaintance with Bonyhád. We walked in silence as I thought of the last three hours of genuine hospitality, and wished that only good things were in store for them. What was Mama thinking looking so serious? Perhaps she had a flashback of the years when we were neighbors and of the time we said our goodbyes. Our thoughts remained private. Mama’s reserve was a trait I inherited; therefore, I sensed that she wanted to keep her thoughts to herself, as did I. We turned left at the end of the driveway as if by osmosis and proceeded down the street in the direction of the church. We stopped to look at the warehouse and the fleet of trucks where once my schoolhouse with its playground and the large tree we sat under at recess had been. My place of learning had become a commercial entity that I could not get out of my mind. We continued on the rutted sidewalk to the wobbly wire-fenced, debris-infested churchyard, where we stared in amazement at a neglected, unused church. Not until I recalled János’s comment that the Communist government forbade religious services and instructions in small villages and towns, did I make sense of the “no trespassing” warning on the fence that Mama was ignoring by trying to unknot the chain on the gate. I struggled to untangle my feet from the knee-high grass to stop Mama, but she had already figured out how to unravel the chain. “Mama, I don’t think it’s a good idea that we walk up the churchyard; we can see the church from here. Someone might be watching and report us to the local authorities for not heeding the ‘no trespassing’ sign,” I pleaded, as visions of soldiers with rifles escorting us to the police station flashed across my...