Years later, when I was almost ten, my father's homesickness for his native country surfaced. I remember the family going out to the movies. In those days, there was a cartoon, a newsreel, and often a double feature--good value for a seventy-five cent adult ticket and twenty-five cent child's ticket. One of the stories on the newsreel showed Hungarian freedom fighters attacking Soviet tanks in Budapest as the proud and rebellious populace tried to regain their freedom and independence. President Eisenhower appeared on the screen and proclaimed to the world that the United States could not support any country borne out of violence. My father took it personally and stood up in the middle of the theater and shouted at the projected Eisenhower image, "that was how this country was borne." He was right of course, but also wrong because the President and the country were scared of the Soviets at that time. He left the auditorium to vent his anger and returned after a few minutes. As a child, I didn't realize that his Jekyll and Hyde personality, his vast temper and his romantic nature, are not present in all male parents. As a result, surviving meant loving him and fearing him at the same time.
It took more years on the planet for me to understand the sadness I often saw in his eyes, but I knew his passion for Hungary was sincere, repressed, and deep-seated. He filled the house with classical music and flowers, and we ate fresh fruits and vegetables. Years later, when I visited Budapest, I knew these were common among Hungarians and existed to make a little Hungary in our small East Cleveland apartment. |
