but when we got to the dock, the Caritas official who was supposed to meet us wasn’t there.
We were sweating and hungry. A man was selling fruit and my father said he would buy me an apple. I had never tasted an apple. It was big and beautifully red.
My father gave the fruit vendor the five-dollar bill we had been touching and feeling since the refugee camp. The vendor gave me the apple and put the five-dollar bill in his pocket and said,
“Zank yu!”
Now we had an apple and no money. Then I ate the apple.
Now we had no money and no apple, either.
The Caritas official was finally there and he put us into a car. I had never been in a car before, only jeeps and trucks. It was like a small, beautiful room that moved.
There was so much noise in America that my mother covered her ears with her hands. Cars honked. People yelled. Policemen whistled. The buildings were so big you couldn’t see the sky. It was so hot it was hard to breathe. Our refugee camp clothes were covered with splotches of sweat.
My father told the relief official that America must be a very expensive place if an apple cost all the money we had. The Caritas man laughed.
I looked out the car window to see if I could see any gold teeth in the streets.
I couldn’t.
I asked the Caritas man to show us where the gold teeth were.
He laughed even more, then he took us to a tall tenement apartment building owned by a florid-faced, friendly Hungarian woman, Mrs. Szánto. Her building was filled with other refugee Hungarians.
She gave us a room and she made us food. She spoke Hungarian in a way I’d never heard. The Hungarian words were mixed with vells and okays and also with “Yu no?” and
“Alrite, mizter?
”
I stood at the window of our room looking far below at all the cars and blew my flute. There were more sirens in the streets of America then I’d ever heard in the camps.
I cried all night and held my mother.
· · ·
I heard my father tell Mrs. Szánto that he wanted to find our sponsor to America and thank him.
Mrs. Szánto asked him who the sponsor was, and when he said it was Jenö Máté, she started to laugh. She told my father that Jenö Máté sponsored anybody and everybody. That he had sponsored more refugee Hungarians all by himself than entire American organizations. That one day America would put Jenö Máté in jail.
My father was frightened that if America put Jenö Máté in jail, then maybe America would send all the refugees he had sponsored back to the camps. I heard my father say to my mother that he was afraid of the Komchis here, too.
America was in a war with the Komchis at a faraway place called Korea.
What if the Komchis bombed America? What if the Komchis invaded America and started filling their arms with wristwatches again? What if we had come to America for nothing—if the Komchis followed us over here—and the same thing happened here that had happened in Hungary?
My father said maybe we should have gone to Chile or Argentina, countries that weren’t at war with the Komchis.
My mother’s solution was to pray and sometimes I prayed with her, kneeling down in that airless, overheated little room with sweat dripping off us, the car horns and the sirens echoing from the street.
She continued telling me about Jesus, which she’d begun doing in the camp. I was fascinated by Jesus. More exactly, I was fascinated by his crucifixion. They drove
nails
into his
hands
and
feet
and they put him up on a
cross
.
Why?
Because they hated him, she said.
Who? The Komchis?
No, she said, the Zsidos—the Jews.
The Zsidos killed Jesus?
My father overheard her and was angry. “Stop filling the boy with nonsense,” he said.
She got angry, too. “It’s true, the Zsidos killed him!”
My father lost his temper. “Jesus
was
a Jew!” he said, and left the room.
“But why did the Zsidos kill Jesus if he was a Zsido?” I asked.
My mother looked away and said I’d understand when I was older.
I was very
We were sweating and hungry. A man was selling fruit and my father said he would buy me an apple. I had never tasted an apple. It was big and beautifully red.
My father gave the fruit vendor the five-dollar bill we had been touching and feeling since the refugee camp. The vendor gave me the apple and put the five-dollar bill in his pocket and said,
“Zank yu!”
Now we had an apple and no money. Then I ate the apple.
Now we had no money and no apple, either.
The Caritas official was finally there and he put us into a car. I had never been in a car before, only jeeps and trucks. It was like a small, beautiful room that moved.
There was so much noise in America that my mother covered her ears with her hands. Cars honked. People yelled. Policemen whistled. The buildings were so big you couldn’t see the sky. It was so hot it was hard to breathe. Our refugee camp clothes were covered with splotches of sweat.
My father told the relief official that America must be a very expensive place if an apple cost all the money we had. The Caritas man laughed.
I looked out the car window to see if I could see any gold teeth in the streets.
I couldn’t.
I asked the Caritas man to show us where the gold teeth were.
He laughed even more, then he took us to a tall tenement apartment building owned by a florid-faced, friendly Hungarian woman, Mrs. Szánto. Her building was filled with other refugee Hungarians.
She gave us a room and she made us food. She spoke Hungarian in a way I’d never heard. The Hungarian words were mixed with vells and okays and also with “Yu no?” and
“Alrite, mizter?
”
I stood at the window of our room looking far below at all the cars and blew my flute. There were more sirens in the streets of America then I’d ever heard in the camps.
I cried all night and held my mother.
· · ·
I heard my father tell Mrs. Szánto that he wanted to find our sponsor to America and thank him.
Mrs. Szánto asked him who the sponsor was, and when he said it was Jenö Máté, she started to laugh. She told my father that Jenö Máté sponsored anybody and everybody. That he had sponsored more refugee Hungarians all by himself than entire American organizations. That one day America would put Jenö Máté in jail.
My father was frightened that if America put Jenö Máté in jail, then maybe America would send all the refugees he had sponsored back to the camps. I heard my father say to my mother that he was afraid of the Komchis here, too.
America was in a war with the Komchis at a faraway place called Korea.
What if the Komchis bombed America? What if the Komchis invaded America and started filling their arms with wristwatches again? What if we had come to America for nothing—if the Komchis followed us over here—and the same thing happened here that had happened in Hungary?
My father said maybe we should have gone to Chile or Argentina, countries that weren’t at war with the Komchis.
My mother’s solution was to pray and sometimes I prayed with her, kneeling down in that airless, overheated little room with sweat dripping off us, the car horns and the sirens echoing from the street.
She continued telling me about Jesus, which she’d begun doing in the camp. I was fascinated by Jesus. More exactly, I was fascinated by his crucifixion. They drove
nails
into his
hands
and
feet
and they put him up on a
cross
.
Why?
Because they hated him, she said.
Who? The Komchis?
No, she said, the Zsidos—the Jews.
The Zsidos killed Jesus?
My father overheard her and was angry. “Stop filling the boy with nonsense,” he said.
She got angry, too. “It’s true, the Zsidos killed him!”
My father lost his temper. “Jesus
was
a Jew!” he said, and left the room.
“But why did the Zsidos kill Jesus if he was a Zsido?” I asked.
My mother looked away and said I’d understand when I was older.
I was very
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