A First Draft – My mom’s story

Being in the states for a few weeks, I sat down one evening with my parents and recorded their stories of the trials and tears of living under Stalin’s oppression in Hungary and their eventual escape to the United States. Two different threads that ended up tying the knot in Cleveland, Ohio.

Here is a free writing exercise I did in my mom’s voice. Free writing has no clarity or eloquence – it’s not supposed to. It is simply words tumbling out without concern for order or correctness. I sat down and let my fingers do the tapping. Forty minutes and 950 words later, this is what I ended up with:

I was little then, don’t remember much. Life passed by so quickly yet slowly. Quick like popping corn because I moved from place to place. Slow because the pain during each stop was intense and seemed as if it would never let up.

When my dad left who knew why? we were little . Mom didn’t say much. She did look very sad for those first few days. Then we woke up one day and she was gone too. My three sisters and I left alone. Who would feed baby Edith? she was only three months old and we didn’t have any baby bottles or milk to give her.

I t didn’t take long for word to pass to a relative and they came for us. We were farmed out to four different homes. Most weren’t so bad. I didn’t like being away from my sisters. When would mom return?

That was so long ago. I can’t remember my dad anymore. People ask me about him. I say, “I don’t know”. Because I really don’t. I don’t remember much about him at all. Not his voice, not his touch, not anything.

Mom did come back after a few months. I think three months she was gone. She never talks about those months. Something happened. She was different.

Our life was different. And somehow I knew the Russian soldiers had something to do with it.

I hated being separated from my family. Living with a different relative every year was hard. Then I ended up in a foster home. I don’t know why and I can’t remember who. I do remember feeling like Cinderella. Doing the work no one else wanted, since I was the most dispensable. Like sending me down the street to get water several times a day. By then I was 12, but still not very strong and the bucket was so heavy. Every time I opened the large front gate I wondered if I’d be shot, since the Russian soldiers and at times with their tanks rolling down the street, were a bit trigger happy when hearing noises.

I left that place and don’t remember why. But soon I was back with my mother and my sisters. She kept telling us we had to be very quiet on the trip she was taking us on.

We had to do what she said exactly when she said it.

Be quiet. Drop. Don’ move. Run. But I didn’t want to drop because I didn’t want to get muddy. I think it’s a miracle we escaped alive. I was sure the footsteps and sudden flash light would take my mother away again. But the voice was kind. They helped us.

We lived in a small room in a refugee camp. Austria was beautiful. And kind.

For two years we lived there. Along with thousands of others scattered in the same kind of camps throughout Salzburg and other cities. It was beautiful. I remember when I saw the Sound of Music for the first time and recognized the mountains and the tree lined boulevard.

But for me it was a different kind of beauty. The kind that comes with both fear and contentment. The kind that makes you glad you’re alive but wishes you dead when thinking of soon you’ll have to leave. We didn’t know where, or when. My mother put our names on many different lists. Costa Rica, Australia, Sweden, the United States. We did leave.

On a plane, my first one. We flew to France, then Ireland. Our plane lost an engine and we made an emergency landing in Newfoundland. Never heard of such a place in my life. I was cold because it was cold there. We did not have winter clothes. That didn’t matter, we had to get off the plane. At least we had a warm bed to sleep in at the hotel they provided.

From there we ended up in Rochester New York. United States was the where our names fell on the list. A Catholic charity sponsored us and we blindly went. Beggars certainly cannot be choosers. Destiny was not in our own hands. Nothing is when oppressive regimes overtake your country. Even our dignity was taken. That was one of the things we would have to build again, besides our life.

We stayed only briefly in Rochester. Again I don’t know why. Have you ever been frustrated because you can’t remember things? This is worse than not finding your car keys. This is fragments of a life, lost forever. Or are they buried somewhere? I don’t even know how to find out.

We ended up in Cleveland, Ohio. Many other Hungarians lived there at the time. Perhaps that’s why my mother took us there. To be around like people with like stories and like pain. There’s comfort in communal suffering.

Another start, more houses. Moving moving moving. Would I ever know what it is to have a house and actually live in it? My life consisted of packing, moving, unpacking. Then the cycle would begin anew.

Until I met him. He saw me washing dishes at the restaurant and fell in love. He tells people it was love at first site of the young, blonde 16 yr. old bending over the sink with her sleeves rolled up and sweat pouring down her face.

We married a few months later. We must have done something right. Soon it will be almost 50 years, five kids, and fourteen grandchildren. I finally had my own home, and when we moved it was because we wanted to, not because we had to.

That’s what I like to remember.

As you can see, this is skeletal at best. Hours of detail are yet to come.

I will share here some info about my grandfather who left. He was a Hungarian officer, opposed to Communism, who patrolled the passenger train. He was marked even before he began helping others escape. He must have been notified secretly of his pending demise, forcing him to escape to Austria as well. This was why he left.

Reports would later reveal that one day as he walked down a street in Austria, a car pulled up, men jumped out grabbing him and throwing him in the car. It was the last time anyone saw him alive.

My grandmother was taken in the middle of the night. We would eventually learn that she was beaten, tortured, and abused in every way as they tried forcing information from her regarding her husbands activities.

They are two of my personal heroes.

7 thoughts on “A First Draft – My mom’s story

  1. The story was so amazing I look forward to reading more.Your parent’s story is very moving.You have to be so blessed to have gotten to hear these stories and to know your heritage.

  2. Wow, that is fantastic, you definately have a talent for this! I’ve heard the story many times. But reading it takes it to a new level emotionally for me. I too have always held the greatest respect for the strenght, love, and courage I saw in Granny and the Grandpa I never got to meet. Maybe someday in Heaven…

  3. Wow, I just read it with Zoli. What an amaizing story, I can hardly wait for the rest.
    You did a wonderful job, the way you put it together.

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