eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780252099274 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Illinois Press |
| Publication date: | 11/01/1989 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 208 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Seed of Sarah
Memoirs of a Survivor
By Judith Magyar Isaacson
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS PRESS
Copyright © 1991 Board of Trustees of the University of IllinoisAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-252-09927-4
CHAPTER 1
The Hidden Crowd
Kaposvár, Hungary • Spring 1938
Kaposvár: a speck on some maps, a void on most. "Virágzó Kaposvár — Blooming Kaposvár" perches in the hills beyond the Danube, the dozing capital of Somogy county in southwest Hungary. Kaposvár was my home, my universe.
Mother, father, and I lived on Kontrassy Street, on the second floor of a two-story house, in four bright, spacious rooms. Our rented apartment spread above the Somogy Journal and the daily rumble of the printing press would be the only thing to shake the tranquility of our lives.
On school days, the bathroom was always mine from seven to a quarter past. Mother would wake me five minutes earlier, because I liked to spend the time lying under my a puffy down quilt. On winter mornings, I needed those extra minutes just to gather courage to get up.
I would strip to the waist in the unheated bathroom to give myself a fast rubdown with icy water, watching steam rise from my shoulders. At thirteen, I liked to linger at the mirror which reflected a new me, with an elongated waist and two tiny jutting breasts. Then I would pull on winter underwear and my school uniform, a pleated navy skirt and a blouse styled like a hussar jacket. The Hungarian Ministry of Education had recently ordered all private schools to exchange their traditional sailor blouses for this national motif. Someone in government must have had a fit of patriotism — in defiance of Hitler, I hoped.
"You can have the bathroom now," I would call, and my father would come, humming a csárdás — a Hungarian dance tune. He would halt his morning singing only to shave. With the razor dancing on his cheeks, he would purse his lips and whistle instead.
His gleaming white skin and brisk stride made him seem much younger than his thirty-eight years. His face was lean with a short, straight nose, which I admired, fearing that my own might someday acquire the slight Vágó bent that came to my mother's family in late adolescence. A Jewish nose — what a curse that would be! More than ever before, everyone aped the "Aryan" look, however senseless Hitler's designation might be.
On snowy mornings ! would join my mother at the family-room window to watch the snow. "Esik a hó, a dal ma mege red — Snow flakes descending, stove's hearth throbbing" — mother liked to quote the well-known line from Babits, the twentieth-century poet, whenever we woke to a snowy morning. Babits and Ady — the Hungarian Verlaine and Baudelaire — were our favorites; we both knew scores of their poems by heart,
I would answer her with a line from Shelley — -in the Hungarian translation, of course: "Késhet a tavasz, ha már itt a tél? — If winter comes, can spring be far behind?"
The room would be fragrant with burning wood and fresh-baked rolls, brought from my grandfather Vágó's bakery by his young apprentice, who delivered them daily in a wicker pack-basket, as he did to scores of customers. Mother would step lightly toward our massive tile stove — the color of burnished copper — and stretch her arms to the purring, tall, rectangular solid as if it were a living thing. I liked her best in her ankle-length robe of black corduroy, patterned with miniature yellow roses that set off her wavy, seal-black hair.
Breakfast was always a croissant and an emperor's brioche, with fresh butter and my mother's homemade jam. I always drank cocoa and my parents had café-au-lait.
Punctually at 7:45 I would leave for school, only three blocks away on Eszterhàzy promenade, Kaposvàr's only asphalt-paved street. Along the icy sidewalks two strips of snow hid the canna beds, two long, dirty dunyhas. Bare trees stood guard, trembling in the wind.
I attended the third form in the girls' Gimnazium — Somogy county's only preparatory school for the more-bookish daughters of the middle class, a nonsectarian school of eight forms, forages ten to eighteen. Its three-story, grey stone structure was impressive, until one compared it to the boys' counterpart, which resembled a palace.
I always made it to school by five minutes to eight and would dash up to the second floor two steps at a time — my private game, a secret superstition, like dodging cracks in asphalt pavements.
* * *
One day, my race was suddenly interrupted by no less a personage than Dr. Ferenc Biczó (pronounced Bitzo), a professor of the upper forms, who was a colorful, controversial figure and a brilliant lecturer in Hungarian and Latin literature. He stood on the landing, a veritable statue of himself, one foot posed before the other, hands clasped behind his back in studied nonchalance. His open coat exposed a protruding vest bursting its buttons and the narrow slit of a pocket, which held a heavy gold watch and chain. He was a bachelor, whom several upper-form girls hoped to marry on graduation — despite his round paunch, bald pate, and forty-odd years.
Mesmerized by his august presence, I stopped, looked hesitantly, and for the first time saw at close range the ruddy cheeks, the gold-rimmed spectacles, and the fleshy nose with blue and crimson veins. A Mona Lisa smile, in a middle-aged, male edition, played furtively on his thin, purple lips. It was rumored in town that he liked his wine. The alcohol, it was said, gave him inspiration.
Dr. Biczó was something of a local legend in Kaposvár, a town given to culture almost as much as to gossip. My young aunt Magda Vago, a great Biczó admirer, had prepared me to honor his exalted position long before I entered the gimnazium.
"Magyar," Dr. Biczó pronounced in a lordly cadence. He knew my name!
"Yes," I whispered. A biblical "Here am I!" would have better fitted my mood, for I felt as if I had been addressed by a divine presence.
"You are Magda Vago's niece,' he said. "Vago, a young lady of talent." I barely nodded. My favorite aunt was eight years my senior; I was amazed that Biczó knew the connection.
"Please, Vago — I mean Magyar — report to my office at ten o'clock recess." He continued his stately ascent without a word of explanation.
After this exalted command, I skipped the steps three at a time, my braids flying off at the sides. I paid only scant attention to the morning lectures, and, as soon as the bell rang for recess, I dashed to the third floor, the upper-form territory. But once there, I slowed down considerably, awed by the elongated torsos and round breasts parading up and down the corridor.
Biczó's study was off limits to all but his privileged. It took most of the courage I could muster to approach his inner sanctum. When I appeared at the open door, he glanced at me momentarily over his gold-rimmed spectacles, and then returned to his reading. His study was lined with books, arranged by subject, from floor to ceiling. A pale February sun washed the heavy oak desk and illuminated a small, exquisite oil painting on the far wall. Slowly, theatrically, he lifted his bald pate "Hmm Judit Magyar." I had the distinct impression that he enjoyed my amazement, and I gave a mute curtsy, just as mother had taught me: right tiptoe behind left foot, fingertips lifting the rim of the navy pleated skirt to the prescribed one centimeter.
Biczó leaned back in his chair, crossing his short arms over his stout chest. "Well, Magyar," he said, "I understand you recite poetry." He had heard! I nodded, feeling my face grow warm. Dr. Biczó closed the book ponderously as he added: "I understand that you won first prize in the lower-form competitions."
That gave me back my courage: "I did. With a poem by Ady."
"Ady, no less! Well, I've got something far less sophisticated for you." His thin lips dipped at the corners, then slowly eased into a smile. "How would you like to be the sole representative of the lower forms at our March Fifteenth Festival?"
March Fifteenth was the anniversary of the 1848 Hungarian revolution, and the yearly festival was the only public performance offered by our gimnazium. Everybody of importance came, from the mayor to the shopkeepers. Within the world of the lower forms, a solo performance at the festival was like winning the Nobel Prize. There was nothing higher to strive for.
"At the March Fifteenth Festival?" I gasped, hardly believing.
"Yes, at the festival," he smiled, and handed me a book opened to a lengthy poem. I blushed deeply, and Dr. Biczó chuckled. "Recess is nearly over," he said, "you'd better get back downstairs, Magyar."
Returning to class, I was as concerned about a costume as I was about the poem. I would have to appear in a national dress, hand made for a small fortune. I did not want to tax my parents with such an unnecessary expense. My best friend, Ilona Pogany, soon offered me hers, but it proved too short. Next day, I rushed up to the second floor during recess. Overcoming my shyness, I called at the door of the sixth form: "Does anybody have an outgrown Hungarian costume?"
Marika Erdo's jumped up: "You're Judit Magyar, aren't you I merely nodded. Everyone knew Marika; she was a celebrated upperform scholar and performer. But I hardly expected her to know of me. "I hear you're to recite the lower-form poem at the festival," she said. "I did, three years ago, and I'm sure mother kept my costume. Let me see " she sized me up with her eyes. "Oh, yes, it'll fit you fine!"
The next morning, Marika brought the dress to school. I was overjoyed. Costumes were generally paprika-red, sheet-white, and grass-green, resembling the Hungarian flags, but Marika's was unique. The vest and headdress were fashioned of crimson velvet, decorated with sparkling stones. Over the embroidered white silk skirt hung a miniature jade green apron — a work of art.
"I shall be wearing Marika Erdds's costume," I boasted to Dr. Biczó during our rehearsal, proud of the connection,
"Oh, Marika Erdds," Biczó beamed, "one of my top young scholars." Three years my senior, Marika was all I wanted to become: tall, sophisticated, dashing. The fact that she was not Jewish did not concern me, but the fact that she had fashionably full breasts did. I envied their soft bounce under her navy uniform. I expected to grow tall, and I strove to become dashing and sophisticated, but only God could bestow such breasts.
I learned my poem by heart and rehearsed it for hours each night. Unfortunately it was a patriotically contrived ode. trite and childish. "Don't exaggerate that awful rhythm," mother coached, "you're rocking me to sleep. Tone it down. And make your voice resonant: like silver bells in the wind." But camouflaging the rhymes and rhythm wasn't easy. Even while I practiced diligently, I couldn't help but laugh at the poem, so amateurish compared to an Ady or a Babits. I complained to my aunt Magda. "It smacks of the principal," she jeered with the patronizing air of the recently graduated. "I'm sure Dr. Biczó didn't choose it." But as the weeks passed, the poem grew on me, and as I declaimed to mother, I waxed so emotional that tears collected on my lashes. Hadn't my great-grandfather Weiss volunteered in the revolution? Hadn't my father and my paternal uncles fought in the World War? Secretly. I prayed for another upheaval and the chance to risk my own life for my country.
A few days before the festival, Dr. Biczó listened to me recite the poem in its entirety. He nodded his bald head with satisfaction: "Just think what you could do with a great poet like Ady."
The next day, March 13, 1938, which turned out to be a day of historical significance, raced by like any other for me. School in the morning, our main meal at noon. After a dish of veal stew and several walnut-filled palacsintas — Hungarian crepes — my parents lay down on the divan for their siesta, and I was off for a private lesson in French shared by Ilona. Afterwards, we played in her yard.
In the evening, I had supper, poem rehearsal, and homework.
By parental edict, bedtime came punctually. I slept on the studio couch in the family room, and had already crept under my dunyha when father turned on the forbidden voice of BBC from London, broadcasting in German. Our radio set was a novel gadget, its unnatural voice a shocking intrusion. But I knew how to block it out.
Mother was listening to the news while knitting by our copper-colored stove; her elegant, long fingers whirled, making me pleasantly drowsy. Father knelt in front of the radio, as if in prayer, on the elaborate little Persian rug mother had made for his birthday, last April. His fingers turned the dials: BBC was difficult to get. His back was to me, slim and supple under his herringbone coat, and his light brown hair was close-clipped where it met the neck — the short, powerful neck I loved. Secure and serene, I was drifting off to sleep when a male voice announced in German: "This is BBC Hitler's armies occupied Austria today At this very moment, Jewish women are on their hands and knees mopping up Vienna's major promenades" I sat up, terrified. Hungary would be next on Hitler's route. And we were so near .. Will my mother be mopping up Kaposvár's Fo Ucca' (Main Street)? I already saw her, slumped on her hands and knees, her lovely hands blue from the icy rags and her black wool coat dragging in horse dung.
As soon as father shut off the radio, I confronted him with "Will Hitler try to take over Hungary too. Papa?"
Father bit his lower lip. "I hope not.."
"What if he decides to gobble us up?" I anguished. "Would our army repel him?"
My father was a reserve officer, and I expected total reassurance. But he only muttered as if to himself, "They would, if they could." Seeing my fright, he embraced me. "Don't fret, Jutka (pronounced Yutka). We'll stop them before they cross that border! Go to sleep now; there is school tomorrow."
At breakfast, my parents spoke only of the Germans, of Hitler and Vienna. They turned on Radio Budapest, the government mouthpiece. Just the day before, its tone seemed almost impartial, but now it parroted Berlin: "the victorious German armies .. the Jewish women in their ill-gotten jewelry.."
"My God, my God," mother frowned, "and Austria was occupied only yesterday! Will Horthy sell out completely? I don't trust him. Jani. Do you?"
I was aghast. How could my mother speak of our governor Horthy disrespectfully? Father shook his head and waved toward the closed door to whisper: "Watch out! What if Mari is listening?" We had a maid like most middle-class families, since wages were minimal and housework arduous, but our village maid, Mari, was hardly a Nazi spy. How nervous my parents must be, I thought, alarmed.
"What about Jutka's recital?" mother burst out. "A Jewish girl can't very well appear as a symbol of Hungarian womanhood now."
Father's blue-grey eyes grew dim behind the glasses, "I guess you'd better resign, Szivecském — my little heart — before they tell you to. Go and see Dr. Biczó about it first thing this morning."
At quarter to eight, I was in Dr. Biczó's study. He did not seem at all surprised to see me. Did he know I was Jewish? Yes, he did, but it did not matter; this was Hungary, not Austria. Shouldn't I resign my role just the same? Absolutely not, he said. "This is a private institution of classical learning, not some public school."
"Yes," I murmured, "but will the principal allow it?"
Biczó jumped from his chair to pace the room. "He'd better allow it, if he wants his festival," Dr. Biczó waved me off, kindly but firmly.
If Easter was for Christians and Passover for Jews, March Fifteenth was a holiday for all Hungarians. We children always wore spring coats and white knee socks for the first time, no matter how icy the weather. It was the only way to display the ribboned corsages, red, white, and green, like a bouquet of spring flowers. As I stepped onto Kontrassy Street, breathing the sunlit, purified air, I hummed one patriotic song after another. The scare I had suffered two days before had vanished. Vienna seemed far away, and Hitler's armies safely beyond the borders.
Kontrássy Street was celebrating with me: the two-storied houses were on parade. joyfully waving their tricolored flags. Corsaged and light-footed. I. too. was part of the holiday. But carefree as I might have seemed. my child's instincts feared doom; even as I skipped and hummed my way to school, my feet automatically leaped over each crack in the pavement.
Today, our classes were celebrations. and the whole day was spent with history. poetry. and song. In the evening I arrived at school in Marika's splendid costume. jumping with excitement. Among the participants. I was the only child. Our art instructor made up my face with the concentration of a true artist. She held me at arm's length: "You look lovely. Magyar: the picture of a little Hungarian girl." She thinks I don't look Jewish, I figured. and skipped off. foolishly taking it for a compliment.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Seed of Sarah by Judith Magyar Isaacson. Copyright © 1991 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.