A Papa Like Everyone Else Page 9

  The minutes crept by. Gisella shivered with excitement and cold. At last she heard stomping, and a burly figure bundled in a shaggy sheepskin coat stood outlined in the moonlight. It was Mari’s father, Yena, and he had a long gun in his hand. Close behind him was Mama swinging a lamp.

  “All right, Szerena,” Mama shouted. “Stop the banging and give me the broom. Get inside the house. I’m going into the barn to drive the fox out.” Mama pushed open the door of the barn. As she did so, a gray shadow streaked past her. Swiftly it flew across the snow.

  Yena Bacsi raised his gun and took aim. Bang! The shot whipped across the air and rolled into the distant hills. Something feathery dropped from the fox’s jaws.

  Again the gun exploded. Bang! This time the fox somersaulted in midair, fell, and was still!

  Yena Bacsi approached and stared down at the mangled chicken. He turned the dead fox over with his boot. “Well, this one won’t be stealing any more of our fowl,” he said. Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he grabbed hold of the fox’s tail and started for home dragging the animal behind him. “Good night!” he called.

  “Good night, Yena,” Mama returned, “and we thank you.”

  Szerena and Gisella were waiting at the door as Mama came in. “Oh, Mama,” they squealed, “we saw the whole thing! It was awful!”

  “Well, it’s over now. Back into bed, the two of you, or you’ll catch your death of cold.”

  They needed no urging. They bounded into bed and snuggled under the warm quilt.

  “Can you imagine that fox!” Gisella said to Szerena. “He certainly was bold, coming right to our very door!”

  “He was probably hungry,” replied Szerena. “It’s been so freezing cold these last weeks, the wild animals haven’t been able to find any food for themselves. Mama,” she asked, “what is Yena Bacsi going to do with the fox’s fur?”

  “Sell it, I guess.”

  “But you can get a lot of money for fox fur.”

  “It rightfully belongs to Yena Bacsi. He shot it.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Gisella cried, “what if that fox had bitten you? He’s got very sharp teeth!”

  “An old hen like me?” Mama said, laughing. “When he had a whole barn full of young chickens to choose from?”

  TWELVE

  Winter’s pendulum swung so slowly, time seemed suspended over the frozen landscape. But letters from Papa were coming more frequently. Early in February, a letter arrived which made departure from Helmecz suddenly very real.

  . . . . I have booked your passage on the S.S. Rotterdam, leaving from the city of Rotterdam, in Holland, on May 5th. I do not know exactly how long it takes to get to Rotterdam from Helmecz, but to be on the safe side, you should leave at least a week or so before so that you will be there in ample time.

  I think that Jozsi’s offer for the farm is a fair one and I approve completely. He is a good man, hard-working and honest. With your sister Zali’s help, and the help of their three sons, they will keep the farm going.

  As far as the household goods are concerned, sell whatever you can. Take only what you feel you cannot hear to part with. Remember, you can get everything right here in America.

  Now that the time is drawing near, I am very impatient. I cross off each day on the calendar with a prayer.

  Kiss the children for me. All my love.

  Herschel

  We won’t really go, Gisella kept telling herself. At the very last minute, something will happen. Maybe Mama will decide that she doesn’t want to leave Helmecz after all. Maybe Papa will come here instead.

  She tried once to convey her unhappiness to Szerena. But sensible Szerena brushed her arguments aside. “We re going to join our papa in a new and wonderful land. So you might just as well get used to the idea.”

  After that, Gisella kept her feelings to herself.

  “To get into America,” Papa had written, “it’s not necessary for you to know how to read and write.” But in Ungwar, Mama learned that in order to leave the country, she would have to sign her name to get an exit permit.

  “I don’t know how to sign my name,” Mama said with dismay. “I was never taught how.”

  The official was polite but firm. “I’m sorry. The papers must be signed by the person leaving.”

  “Never mind, Mama,” Szerena whispered. “We’ll teach you how. There’s nothing to it. You’ll learn. You’ll see.”

  That evening, when the supper dishes were cleared away, the lessons began. Gisella gave Mama her slate and a fresh piece of chalk. Szerena wrote Mama’s full name in big letters on a sheet of paper torn from her copybook. In the glow of the oil lamp, Mama sat bent over the slate, clutching the chalk tightly as Szerena guided her hand. Slowly and painfully they worked away trying to copy the letters.

  By the end of the week, Mama was shaking her head despairingly. “It’s no use! I’ll never learn!” For a moment, Gisella felt a surge of hope. Perhaps we won’t be able to go! But when she saw the distress in Mama’s face, she felt ashamed. “Mama, you’ve almost got the first part,” she encouraged. “All you need is a little more practice, and you’ll be able to write the rest.”

  Mama’s smile was rueful. “The children are now teaching their mother,” she remarked. She regarded her toil-worn fingers. “It’s odd. These hands can milk a cow and spin and weave. They can knit and crochet and do so many more things. Yet when it comes to shaping some simple letters, they are suddenly clumsy.” She sighed and picked up the chalk. “You see, children, how important it is to get an education when you’re young? When one is grown-up, it is very difficult to learn. I thank God we re going to America. There, at least, you’ll be able to go on with your learning.”

  With patience and practice, Mama succeeded. A week later Mama returned to the bureau in Ungwar.

  The official handed Mama a paper. “Sign here,” he said brusquely.

  Mama took a deep breath and picked up the pen.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Szerena said quietly. “Write just the way you did when we practiced at home.”

  Mama bent over the important-looking document. Her mouth screwed up with the effort as slowly, but steadily, she formed the letters of her name.

  “There!” Putting the pen down with a flourish, she straightened up, smiling triumphantly.

  Stamp! Stamp! The official fixed the date, folded the document, and turned it over to Mama. There was nothing more to deter them from leaving Helmecz.

  Early spring sunshine spread pale and thin across the land. Snow that had shrouded the village for so long suddenly slithered with a rushing sound from the rooftops and ran in icy rivulets down the hilly streets. It was wonderful to smell the earth again, to see the bark of the trees subtly change color as they quickened to life. It was wonderful to feel an occasional promise of warmth in the air.

  Always before, Gisella had welcomed the coming of spring. No more frozen drinking water or frostbitten fingers and toes. No more having to bring in washed garments hardened into weird shapes so stiff they could stand alone. But now she wished only that she could hold back the days that followed relentlessly one upon the other.

  “I can’t put off selling our things any longer,” Mama remarked one morning.

  “But, Mama, we re not leaving for two weeks,” Szerena protested. “What’ll we use in the meantime?”

  “The people that buy them won’t take them away till we are ready to leave.” Mama’s eyes roamed the room. “There’s so much to get rid of,” she added with a hint of sadness.

  The very next day people started coming. One man purchased all the grain and the livestock. The Salomon family took all the furniture and Papa’s books.

  “Why can’t we at least bring Papa his books?” Gisella asked Szerena.

  “Don’t you remember? We wrote and asked Papa what we should do about them, and he said to sell them. In America, he said, you can borrow all the books you need, and it doesn’t cost you anything.”

  The draperies, the dishes, and most
of the cooking utensils Mama was leaving for Zali Neni. The ax and some other farm implements would go to Imre. Odds and ends Mama intended to distribute among their many other friends in the village. It was strange, Gisella thought, how all the dear familiar things that have lived with you your whole life could be disposed of so quickly and matter-of-factly.

  The last days were a hurly-burly of packing, while in between, neighbors kept dropping in to wish the family Godspeed. “Don’t forget,” they said, “you must write and tell us how everything really is.” Over and over Mama and the girls had to promise they would.

  The day before departure finally arrived. Clothing, Mama’s fine linen, the good china and silverware, as well as some special copper pots, and the beautiful brass candlesticks handed down from Great-grandma, were all tied up in tablecloths and bed sheets. The bulky bundles stood around the room like sleeping ghosts waiting for the morrow. In the morning still another bundle would be added, for the bed would be stripped and the bedding packed for the journey.

  By sundown, there was no more to do. Mama took her girls by the hand. Silently they walked out into the twilight and sat down on the ledge. No one spoke.

  Still shadows tinged with blue, heralding evening, began their slow descent. Gisella thought, at this very moment, our cow has fallen asleep in a strange barn. The chickens are roosting on someone else’s rafters. They’re blinking their eyes as if nothing has happened. And the geese—I wonder how they really feel in their new home?

  When the first star appeared, Mama broke the silence. “We’d better go to bed, children. We have to be up before the sun tomorrow.”

  THIRTEEN

  The morning sky was already streaked with pale green when Bacsi Jozsi drove up in his wagon with Yena and Kalman. Behind them, in a buggy borrowed from a neighbor, came Zali Neni and Sandor.

  Gisella had never ridden in a buggy. How splendid it looked with its spirited dusky-brown horse! Well, she’d be leaving Helmecz in handsome style, anyway.

  Bacsi Jozsi scrambled down from his perch. “Come, boys,” he said, “let’s get at the bundles right away. They have to catch a train you know.”

  Numbly Gisella stood beside Szerena watching their possessions being loaded on the wagon. There was a heavy weight on her chest; it made her want to sigh with every breath.

  Zali Neni’s arm was around Mama. Her usually jolly face was expressionless, but her eyes, like Mama’s, were grief-stricken. They’re sisters, Gisella thought. Just like me and Szerena! Only I never thought of them that way before. Even though Szerena and I quarrel sometimes, still, if we had to be separated, perhaps never to see each other again, I couldn’t bear it! Her eyes misted. Quickly she turned away.

  The new grass was just beginning to shoot up all around the house. In the orchard, the trees were already in bud. Beyond lay the fields where the idle ground waited to be turned. This was home! I’ll never forget you! Never! No matter how far away they take me. I’ll remember you always!

  “Gisella, it’s time to go,” Mama called softly. “You’ll sit with me in the wagon. Szerena, you go in the buggy with Sandor.”

  Gisella stared fixedly at Mama. A gust of anger tore through her pent-up misery. “No!” she screamed. “I won’t ride in the wagon! I want to ride in the buggy! No! No! No!”

  In a fury, she stamped her feet, and her fists flailed the air. “I don’t want to ride in the wagon! I don’t want to leave here! This is my home! I don’t want to!”

  Bacsi Jozsi and Zali Neni exchanged unhappy glances, while the boys, abashed by the unexpected outburst, tried not to look at Gisella. Mama reached out toward her, but Gisella’s rage left her as suddenly as it had come. A gulping sob broke from her throat, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She buried her head in Mama’s skirt.

  “Please, Gisella,” Szerena pleaded tearfully. “You can ride in the buggy if you want. I don’t mind going in the wagon.”

  Bacsi Jozsi drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew hard. “Well now, I guess everything’s ready,” he said with a great show of heartiness. “Come along, Gisella. Up you go!” He swung her high and plunked her down in the buggy beside Sandor. She looked so woebegone with her pale, tear-streaked face, her small frame shaken by an occasional sob, that Sandor felt a tightness in his own throat. “Giddap!” he yelled brusquely.

  The buggy moved off. Up ahead lumbered the wagon with Mama, Szerena, and Zali Neni up front with Bacsi Jozsi; Yena and Kalman sat on the bundles in the rear. As they turned off their street into the main thoroughfare, they came upon a sturdy figure standing in the middle of the road, arms outstretched. It was Imre! “Hold on there!” he shouted. “You haven’t said good-bye to me!”

  The horses reined to a stop.

  “Imre!” Szerena cried. “We thought you had forgotten about us!”

  “What? And let you go off without even saying good riddance?”

  With a bound he was up on the wagon ledge. “I want to thank you for all the wonderful tools you left me,” he said to Mama. “Good-bye and I wish all of you good luck in the new world.”

  “Good-bye, Imre. God bless you.”

  Imre pressed a small bar of chocolate into Szerena’s hand. “To sweeten the journey,” he said, and he jumped off.

  Next he ran to the buggy. He gazed up into Gisella’s mournful face. “Don’t feel so bad, little girl,” he said gently. “You know, someday I’ll be coming to America, too.”

  Gisella’s eyes opened wide. “You will?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Sooner than you think. I’ll prove it to you. Hold out your hand!” he ordered. He placed a shining gold button in her palm. “You hold on to that. It’s one of the buttons of my sainted father’s army uniform. When I get to America, the first thing I’ll do is find you and ask you to give it back. Agreed?”

  Gisella took a deep breath. She squeezed the button tight in her fist. Imre had made her feel so much better.

  “And now, let’s have a great big smile for a going away present,” he coaxed.

  It took a moment, but the smile did appear—a bit forlorn but definitely a smile.

  “Well,” Imre smiled approvingly, “that’s the way I want to remember you.”

  The buggy rolled on. Gisella kept looking backward at Imre till he was lost to sight. Slowly she uncurled the fingers of her hand and stared down at the button.

  The big locomotive stood puffing in the station. Hurriedly Bacsi Jozsi and the boys unloaded the possessions into the baggage car.

  Zali Neni clung to Mama for a long while. “Maybe, if you find life good in America, we’ll come also,” she said.

  The engine bell sounded a warning clang. “All aboard!” the conductors shouted.

  “Good-bye! Good-bye, my darlings! Oh, how I’m going to miss you!” Zali Neni’s voice choked up as she hugged the girls to her ample bosom.

  The boys gathered around, shook the girls’ hands, and let themselves be kissed. Bacsi Jozsi put his arm around Mama’s shoulder. “A good safe journey. God bless you and watch over all of you!”

  Through the blur of farewells, Gisella caught a glimpse of Kalman’s face. It looked crumpled up. Was he going to cry? She put her hands to her face and felt the wetness of her own tears.

  “All aboard!” The command was insistent.

  “Come. Come! Enough already! They have to go!” Bacsi Jozsi ordered in a husky voice. Hastily he herded Mama and the girls up the steep iron steps of the train.

  With a sudden jerk, the train began to slide slowly along the station. With noses pressed against the window, the girls stared out at their relatives waving farewell from below. Zali Neni was crying openly, and Bacsi Jozsi was trying to comfort her.

  Claekety-clack—the train rolled relentlessly forward, cutting them adrift. Anxious eyes strained to catch a last glimpse of the dear familiar faces.

  The swaying train rushed determinedly onward. For a long time the family sat without speaking, each locked in her own sadness. Occasionally Gisella’s gaze drifted toward the w
indow. They were hurtling by unending stretches of open land. The world was so vast! She hadn’t realized it before. Never in her whole life had she been beyond Ungwar, and now she was being thrust into a great big wide world—and everywhere people were living and working, and she had never even thought about them.

  FOURTEEN

  The hours crawled by slowly. Wearied of sitting still, the girls roamed up and down the narrow corridor outside the compartment. Occasionally some fellow passenger addressed a few words to them, but they were too shy to respond with more than smiles.

  Eventually the sun sank, and gray dusk settled down onto the landscape. “It’s too dark to see out,” Szerena said, “and anyway, I’m hungry.”

  “Me too,” echoed Gisella.

  “All right then,” Mama said. From her basket, she took pieces of roast goose and slices of black bread liberally spread with white goose fat, salt, and paprika. It tasted so good!

  The long bewildering day had left them utterly spent. Even talking was an effort. Gisella put her head in Mama’s lap and promptly fell asleep. Much later a sudden jolt jogged her awake. She looked around in the darkness, half-stupefied. Where was she? All the lights had been turned off, except for a small one burning in the corridor. She saw that Mama and Szerena, like everyone else, were sleeping sitting up. Reassured, she dropped off to sleep again.

  By the second day, they were extremely weary of the endless motion, the monotonous clacking of the train wheels, the cramped quarters. Their stomachs had begun to rebel against the dry cold food. They felt gritty and unclean in their rumpled clothes. Unable to stretch out, sleep was fitful. Their bodies were stiff and sore, and their eyes burned. The girls slumped listlessly in their seats, no longer interested in the ever-changing scenery flashing by the window.

  “Aren’t we ever going to get off this train?” whined Gisella.