Why is that…

…Why is that when ever the weight of time pressures someone from each side he is able to be the best he can be and when finally he can catch a breath from under this pressure his only desire is to get back to his former life, ‘cause he feels idle…He can’t even write as he wants to, words don’t pour out of his mind and as soon as he starts his thoughts he changes something, because he feels that something is not right… I’m taking part in a boring afternoon right now. For days now I’m trying to get away from the overwhelming heat of the summer. People are dull and bored and even that worthless small dog on the edge of the road puts its head between its paws and takes a nap in the shadow of the stairs. Everything is the same…the house is empty…everyone is struggling somewhere so this can all be over and the summer vacation can start. I’m sitting here idle listening to some of the inhabitants of this neighborhood as they babble of nothing special…It seams that you can write a couple of rows even about being idle and doing nothing…maybe even more than I previously thought. Everyone is treading his alley, with troubled heads walking on their solitary path. Sometimes this world is so beautiful, but than again it’s so… I cannot find the word… this hadn’t happened for a while. People are lonely these days… there everyday dull lives push them forward, but sometimes not even that. There aren’t any ideals, heroes, suffering young lovers, just grey worn faced shadows. Here and there you can still see a person but the haze washes him away in an instance. The children still happily play the grownups’ world, laugh and frolic around. And you slowly lean out and shout at them, because at this time of the day a grownup needs peace and quiet, forgetting that once you were in their place. And once your child will ask you Hey Dad, weren’t you a child once?… and words will stop in your throat, you crawl into yourself and slowly nod, knowing that those moments will only visit you on a sleepless night… And now I feel that I should refresh one of these small stories, but something tells me not to…Probably ‘cause I don’t remember it or maybe you don’t want to share the treasure you hold inside you…And in times like this your childhood hours come to life. On summer days like this when in a sleepy old village you and your cousins were quietly playing in your own world. These are the hours that appear in front of my eyes now…The four children are playing in the sandbox in front of the small house, hiding from the scorching rays of the Sun. On the worn blue walls lies the cool foliage of the grapevines. Beneath it eight tiny hands are shaping clay… They soak their hands in the small riffle so the clay will slide more easily between their fingers. Suddenly grandma’s voice rises from the kitchen… – Oh you devils! Didn’t I just tell you that the cows will have to drink from it!… The four small heads somberly look at the ground. Feeling embarrassed they had back to the sandbox and look back. – Grandma’s gone – And the activity resumes. How many wonderful figures rise from the hands of the children. Ducks, chicks and even a tiny cow comes to life and dances in the sand, thrashing around the sand with its jumps. Three of them get up. The clay is not enough…They need some more and soon enough the whole farm will be jumping in the sand. I was left by myself… with agile moves the clay turned into an eye, ears and two horns….AAAAhhh – screamed the child. Everyone ran towards him. The huge red rooster had jumped on his back and pinched his shoulder. The smallest of the four was screaming, fighting the red beast. Soon enough granny’s figure stood there, grabbing the rooster by its wings and wiping the tears of the child’s face with her other hand. – Don’t worry son…I’ll cut it in an instance. Let me see that scar – The three playmates arrived, Everyone was cheering him up. It’s okay…everything’s fine. He sniffed and wiped the last of his tears. The danger was gone… then slowly the animals in the sandbox started jumping around again….And it looks like I could write this down. Tiny childish memories from a past period. It’s good to think back. And maybe this heat is not that unbearable anymore. It was worth leaving today…

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) 25^th of July 2006

 

Human

A simple question… and then again not a simple answer. What makes us human? What is it that distinguishes us from animals and states, that yes the respective on is a human. Where is the human in us or who is that? You wake up in the morning, smile, maybe with bored steps go to work and maybe you even stop by the university, or perhaps just meet a couple of your mates somewhere. Is this enough to call yourself a human being? There are dreams, ideals and goals, and often you ask the question if all of these have a reason. Dreaming, the attempt to live not only for today but for the accomplishment of your dreams makes you human. And then is this the right way? You have only one life and that’s short and few are the moments when you can truly be happy. Or the fact that you seek affection just like anyone on this planet makes you human. Many don’t realize it or just started living with the thought… Affection. What else do you need to become human and be able to say it out loud? Everyone goes to sleep at night and many stare at the empty space near them. And maybe they imagine the person of their dreams lying there. And it’s so hard when you meet it. Probably I’m the creation of someone’s dreams and there are people who wonder in my dreams. It’s difficult to break away from many things in life, and not her hair, her body’s scent or just her gentle breasts. But it’s hard to separate from a dream. What would’ve my first reaction been today, than “well yes, a bitch”. And we settled everything with this, right? Or maybe not. Who are we to judge others if we don’t even know ourselves. She played with my head and the minds of others or maybe she’s just living her crazy life as any other youngster. And yet again the question arises if we just have to take life simply as it is, we don’t think about people getting hurt just by us playing with their heads. Question if I haven’t already done that. Because there is someone who even after two years cries for you and says a prayer. And then you sometimes look inside yourself and wonder if you hadn’t just thrown away this person from your side. You imagine her as the mother of your children, as the loving wife who jumps in your arms after a hard day’s work, who will raise your blood. And now even after two years you feel that you can always trust her. And still the flaming passion lurks deep inside you. You know that you cannot trust HER and never could and you cannot imagine her as the mother of your children and something tells you that your life would be a pain besides her. And still the desire burns in you that she’s the one you want. Why her?

At this very moment it’s hard to tell if I feel something for her besides the wild urge to be with her. Because when you confront a dream it’s hard to start believing again. And I’m standing here with another question, ‘cause I know if I choose her path many hearts will be broken and I could tread many souls. And maybe this is the road I’ll choose but I don’t know the answer why. Why is this desire to play with someone’s soul so contaminating? I don’t know…

Human … sometime from now a wiseass will try to define this word. But he won’t find an answer, because he won’t be able to. Because this is a word that cannot be but into letters.

A sentence that I heard today grabbed my attention. Not long ago I spoke to one of my girlfriends whom I can tell what do I sometimes feel about this world and that occasionally I write. We were searching for an answer to life and its meaning. A very simple thought from her. Maybe if you just influence someone’s life and give him a pinch of inspiration to accomplish his own dreams it was worth living, like a human.

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) 19^th of June 2007

 

Life in a nutshell

 

– Aunty Blanka’s story –

Four days passed since I had the opportunity to visit the Budapest Holocaust memorial and we had the chance to talk face to face and feel the life story of one of the survivors of those atrocities.

We’re sitting in a small ground floor room, probably twenty. A kind and smiling old lady sits in front of us. Silence and an indescribable tension fill the small chamber. Aunty Blanka commences….

I was born in Transcarpathia, not far way from Ungvár, in Aknaszlatina, sometime in the year 1929. I come from a poor Jewish family with six children. We didn’t have a lot. Six of us lived in a small room, but our tiny home had love and faith among its walls.

I didn’t even start my elementary school properly when my father found a new home for us in the Slovakian Leva. Our small home stood in a narrow and short alley. My childhood wasn’t easy, my dad was constantly looking for a job to sustain his family and just as we arrived the Hungarian Army took over the region in 1938. Because we were newcomers they sent us back to Aknaszlatina where a provisional Ukranian autonomous state had been set up. I had to learn everything in Ukranian at school although I didn’t understand a word. All the other languages were banned. I just learned my lessons by heart and answered in front of my teachers not knowing what I was saying.

A year later Hungary annexed Trancarpathia and now we could legally move back to Leva where I studied in a German school. Meantime the war broke out and we were forced to wear David’s star. People looked at us indifferently, some of them ignored us, others just turned their heads the other way…I remember feeling humiliated and I always hold my backpack in a way that I could cover the yellow star with my arm. The day came when I finished my secondary-school studies. My class-master ordered us to get off our yellow stars, because in her class no one was to be stigmatized. This day remained a joyful one for all of us. We even got a small silver ring and promised each other that we’ll meet again in 5 years… We never met each other again…

It was the summer of ’44. The Hungarian Holocaust started. In only 56 days the Hungarian government deported half a million Jews two the German concentration camps. More than ninety percent of them ended up in Auschwitz-Birkenau.

It was a quiet afternoon when SS soldiers and Hungarian provosts burst into our home. They were yelling at us like animals to pack our belongings because we had to go. To go? Where, when, why? We had only a couple of minutes to pack our most precious items and afterwards they moved us out on the street. My father ran back. He forgot his tallit (praying shawl)… They threw him on the ground and like beasts started kicking and hitting him, that he almost lost his conscience. She stops for a minute, wipes her tears and looks around. We feel the pressure of this moment on ourselves…She continues…

They took us to the railway station where cattle hauling wagons were waiting for us. The stench of animal remains still filled the air when they shoved us into the carriages like a heard of animals. Eighty, eighty-five people had to fit in them. We were given two buckets. In one of them was our drinking water, the other served as our WC. In minutes the little water that we had was gone… This was how much we were given for a day…a bucket of water for each wagon.

The horrendous journey lasted for three days. During the day we were hauled on different rail tracks and only travelled during the nigh time. Probably it was so others couldn’t see the human shipment. A horrible stench and heat filled up these tight spaces. People started fighting and yelling at each other. We didn’t even have room to put our small bags. And somehow these terrifying three days passed.

…The doors opened. Workers speaking a Slav language got us of the wagons. We had to leave our belongings behind. Where are we? Why are we here? Who are these people all around us? In minutes we were separated into groups of five. The Polish workers pulled the babies out of the hands of their mothers and shoved them into the hands of old women shouting Grossmutter! Grossmutter! (Grandmother!). This is how they wanted to save at least the mothers, because the mothers with babies were taken straight to the crematorium. They took me and separated me from my mother. She wipes her tears… That was the last time I saw my mommy. My father and brother were put in another group.

Auschwitz-Birkenau… This is the place where we had arrived, not knowing why or what the following day would bring with it. In groups like this we had to pass under a gate to get into the camp. We passed a finely dressed German gentleman who in a soft voice was saying he stays, he can go. As I later found out he was dr. Mengele.

We had to take of our clothes. They shaved of all our body hair and afterwards took us into a showering chamber where they poured cold water on us…Frightened and naked we were lined up in the courtyard. We were not the same persons anymore…Suddenly someone addressed me from the behind. It was my brother. We hardly recognized each other, bare and naked as we were… I jumped into his arms and started crying. He reassured me that he will be by my side. They took us apart…The clothes were handed out, if we can call those rags clothes. We weren’t even worthy of the striped clothes made out of former sacks. They threw peaces of cloths, eaten by maggots, towards us. We didn’t even know how to get them on us, because they were torn apart…No underwear was given …I was sent to Birkenau in a makeshift barrack. Beyond the fence a huge chimney darkened the sky…We didn’t know what it was… Not even a hay sack was given to us. We had to sleep on the cold ground like animals. During the night when we went to the WC the others started pinching our feet as we were walking across them. Horrendous nights, I don’t know if you can imagine all of this…

The other day we wondered what will happen to us. A huge German lady officer came into our barracks…All of you who are not sixteen stand up, because we will take you to your mothers… I got up happily that finally I would see my mother. Upon seeing this a Polish woman jumped up and slapped my face. Why are you lying? You’ve already passed sixteen. I stood there frightened and not knowing what to do but I realized that I will have to lie. The next time the officer asked me how old was I, I answered that over sixteen. This Polish woman saved my life. As we later found out, those who weren’t sixteen were sent to the crematorium.

We never knew what they would do to us. In lines of five we would stand in the scorching Sun all day. We were given a piece of dry bread and a plate of some kind of a brew of which we could take three sips and ha to pass it to the one behind us. They didn’t do anything with us. We just had to stay there all day and if someone collapsed he was bitten. First we vomited from the bread; slices of soaked and moulded bran. The others knew we wouldn’t eat it, so we gave it to them. But later on, seeing that this was our only source of food we were forced to eat it.

Once a day we got water. It was a horrible sight. A dirty water truck came and let out the water in the riffle at the edge of the courtyard. Like animals we ran to it. Every part of our body was craving for water. A snap!! The driver of the truck, a huge German soldier, started beating with his belt all those, who dared touch the riffle. With a satanic laugh he got a rag and started washing his truck with our water. Calmly, taking his time… Every day he would wash his truck for an hour. The remaining filthy water was left for us. This was how we could get water…She wipes her tears again.

I was lucky with my brother. He was the one who supported me every day and we would plan what to do when will be free again. This is the only way you can escape from a place like this, by thinking that this will end too one day.

Everyday the same hideous smell rose from the chimneys until we found out that those were the crematoriums. We thought they burned our cloths and hair there. It was our fellowman. We learned to cope with everything, ‘cause we knew if we fell ill the furnaces awaited us.

The seventh week passed when orders came that a thousand workers were needed in the war factories from the Essen region. We were put on trains again.

Huge factories waited for us where we had to produce ammunition for the German Army. It was heaven compared to Auschwitz. Everyone got a hay sack and two slices of bread. We shared the plant with French, Dutch, Polish and Russian prisoners. The French were the kindest, they would help us with everything. The Dutch were more distant and only communicated among themselves and in the eyes of those who came from the Russian front we were just “filthy Jews”.

Hard work waited for us. We worked in the factory’s furnaces where we had to mix chemicals unknown to me. The fumes saturated with toxic waste suffocated our lungs and the splashing drops burnt our hands. I look at her arms. The former blisters are still visible.

I was lucky because of a volunteer girl who worked there. She taught me childish songs and she took the blame on herself that I didn’t have enough to eat. She would always smuggle a small amount of food into the plant. I wasn’t used to such kindness. Someone treated me as a human being and not a maggot. I’ve been searching for this girl ever since, but I never met her again.

Later on I had to assemble the ammunition rounds. With my skinny arms I had to throw the 25-30 kilo shells from one place to the other. I was exhausted, tired. The French workers stood as a protective wall so the guards wouldn’t see me and laid me on the shells to rest. I fell asleep. In the same time they showed us how to drill the projectiles so they would become useless on the battlefield.

The year turned to ’45. We were once again on a train. Only a quarter of those who originally came to the industrial plants survived. They got us to Leipzig in the other end of the country. The Anglo-American troops were closing in, the Germans were fleeing. A ghetto waited for us. I once again met up with my brother.

We barely went to sleep when our shelter came under attack. Projectiles broke the barrack’s windows. One of them exploded between my brother and I. Many died in an instance. Our skin was badly burnt and once again they forced us to move. Three weeks of walking to the Elba River. The drops of rain were beating us every step of the way and the snowflakes froze on our shoulders. We had to walk for three weeks; living skeletons. Many fell on the ground and were instantly shot. Our clothes became part of our skin and rotted on our bodies. You cannot imagine how it felt living through all of this. The horse that pulled the officer’s carriage died so they replaced it with two of these skeletons. They had to pull the cart. We reached the Elba but on the news that the Soviet troops were advancing they turned us back and left us there. We got rid of our rotten cloths and like the snake that sheds it skin, a lair of skin left our bodies. We took a battered and beaten body of our shoulders.

The Americans found us first. They didn’t know what to do with us and couldn’t believe what we’ve lived threw. One of the soldiers took us to a warehouse and cut open the sacks of sugar. Rivers of sugar poured like the sea and we just gobbled it up like hungry animals. Many of us realised that our shrunken stomachs wouldn’t cope with the sudden amount of food so we stopped eating. Many died of it.

Soon after, the Russians arrived. They were much better organized thanks to what they encountered at the Polish death camps. Of the original thousand only a few of us were alive, as many as could fit in a small cow shad. And the days in Leipzig passed on. During the night we wondered the city stealing whatever we could. I never forget the time we found some flour in front of a mill. We took it to our shelter and after mixing it with water baked it. It was full of glass chips. It cut open our tongs and mouths but we still ate it… It’s hard for you to believe all of this…She moans deeply.

Unfortunately the Russian soldiers horrifyingly raped some of my companions and I’ve been asking to myself ever since. How could they see anything feminine in these human wrecks? We were living skeletons… I could never understand.

…Near the Czech border I received a small paper that stated that I was a prisoner from Auschwitz and I crossed the border with this into Czechoslovakia. She passed around her safely guarded piece of red paper. By foot and train I got home to Leva but everything that belonged to us was taken and a new family lived in our house… Faith floated me on the shores of Budapest and I started a new life here.

You can ask me whatever question you want my dear friends.

Words became stuck in our throats but slowly we started asking.

– Have you ever seen your parents again?

That was the last time I saw my mother, when we arrived to Auschwitz. She probably was killed the same day. Tears fill her eyes and stops for a moment to wipe them. I later found out that my father had to carry cement filled sacks. He eventually died their suffocated, because the cement powder mixed with sweat on their skin and eventually choked them.

– Have you ever met your siblings again?

They were all alive. My elder sister got to Budapest and outlived the war. My two brothers survived too. We got extremely ill my dears. I weighed 33 kilos when I got to Budapest and it took us years until we could call ourselves humans again. Typhus, TBC and other diseases scourged our bodies. I live on medication to this very day and my ankles never recovered from the three week walk.

– Could you hold on to your faith afterwards?

No, unfortunately not. Because I always asked the question, if there is a God, then how could’ve he let all of this happen, why did we have to go through all of this? What wrong did my poor working and faithful parents ever do that they had to end up this way. None of my brothers believe in God anymore. Even to this day … and tears fill her eyes… I search for God but cannot find him. I hope he will once find me.

– Could you ever forgive the people who’d done this to you?

No my dears. I could never forgive them because I never once saw a sign of humanity in them. They were animals. But the desire for revenge has long died out in me. After I got to Budapest I witnessed 11 executions and every single one of them cried out before they were hung that they wished they could’ve killed more Jews. I could watch all of this back then, but I couldn’t anymore. Revenge is no more. One of my guard’s files got into my hand. He was already passed eighty and I couldn’t take him to Court. Even till this day his files lay in my basement.

– How did you remain sane in those conditions?

We truly believed that one day all of this will turn into good. We sang, planned our futures and what we would do if we got free again. This was the only way. The ones who didn’t believe perished. We tried to be happy with all the small good we could gather in that place. When they took us to Leipzig the German lady officer laughed at us, because we were telling each others future from our palms. Do you still believe that you will ever live through this? – this is how she answered.

– Have you ever seen some sort of human sympathy from the Nazis?

Probably two times. After our three weeks of walk our guards put down their weapons and apologised for what they’ve done. You were the prisoners until now. From tomorrow we’ll be the ones. You are already free. In the same time there were guards who would overlook if people threw potatoes or an apple over the fence. But I haven’t witnessed more than this.

– When did you find the strength to go back to Birkenau?

Almost thirty years passed until I could go back to the death camp. Nothing remained of our barracks, only two stones signalled that once we slept and suffered there. A long time passed until I could talk about this, but it has to be passed one, because there is still hatred among us and we easily forget what they’ve done to us. My work is ever more important because my son-in-law is from Nigeria, my daughter is Jewish and they are already put against difficulties because of this.

And the questions continued for a full hour…I think my dear friends we’ll stop here, because I’m tired. A couple of photos, hugs and we said good bye to aunty Blanka. We slowly walked to the subway station….

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) 9^th of July 2007

Budapest 5^th of July 2007

 

Dedicated to Falcon

Dedicated to Sólyom (Falcon)

Prologue

What am I doing behind words? Maybe not even I know. Something accumulated in me and this is the only way it can reach the surface. I’m not a writer, I’m not looking for the best expressions. It doesn’t matter to me if I’m an all knowing narrator or one who talks in first person. I decide who I want to be; important is what the narrator can tell us. How? That’s his business. He wants to write about events that pressure him than let him write if he has something to write about. 1 o’clock and 41 minutes after midnight and this is the time when the best thoughts come to life, no one bothers him maybe he doesn’t bother himself either. Well start your story already don’t let us wait so long!

– – – – – – –

…They took the mold, then the small thread of wire, afterwards they poured the wax. It covered the strand, but still a small end of it remained uncovered so he could sniff the air outside. It cooled. It was ready. A new candle – said the workers throwing him amongst the others. A long road still lay ahead of our tiny candle. From here he got into a dark something that made strange noises, it huffed and puffed an eventually started moving. The candle had still a lot to learn. He wondered …hmm. Maybe I’ll know what this is called. He looked around and felt that he was surrounded by similar tiny candles. They didn’t even say a word, but how could they since they’re just candles.

A sudden and long break and the vehicle stopped. Our small hero was taken in a box and in short time found itself in the shop window. He looked here, he looked there. Strange – he thought. What is actually my role? He felt that something was not right, because he was thinking. But wait a minute. Candles don’t think, or do they? Something was peculiar about this one, since he wasn’t your common lighting utensil. Let’s just see what will happen to him, because he seems more interesting than the others.

Bystanders (he found out their names), tall and short, came staring at him; here and there an overweight lady dragged along his child who wasn’t really interested in shopping. Tall, old gentlemen with moustaches, gentle and delicate ladies, freckle faced lads. Everyone bought something but the candle still stood there quietly. An ugly old “battle ax” came. I wonder who this is. – he was asking himself. She’s not a nice creature. I wouldn’t like to live with her. He didn’t even say the words properly when the frightening old bag grabbed him with her long and skinny fingers and shoved the small product into her pocket. Two pennies. This is how much he cost.

He set quietly in the tight, dark pocket, didn’t even dare to move. Who knows what would’ve she done to him. A screeching door and the sound that it closed. Not long after he could see a small beam of light filtered by a gray window. Wouu, I only now realize that I’m already outside. What is my duty again? He looked around and saw another candle. It was taller than him, majestic and with a red flame lit up the entire room. He was astonished….So this is my task; but he is just a small candle, he will never be able to light up the room like that. But wait, how do you light?

Something was strange, but what was so special in him? He was just a small piece of wax with a string inside. Oops! Look! The string burst into flame. How did you do this you tiny candle? I don’t know – he replied. My string suddenly started burning.

And boy did it flame, he lit up the small chamber, dwarfing the other one’s fading light. The witch came back. …Just look how the small shameless candle is lighting my home. Come here you!

So she took him, liked her fingers and wanted to extinguish his flame, but the candle burned her dry old claws and started burning more brightly than ever. Okay you rascal. Just leave it to me. You’ll see. She took him from one chamber to the other but wherever they went he lit up the rooms and however much she struggled he would flame brighter than before. She just looked at him and had a sudden flash. I know. I’ll just put you under water. And that’s what she did…Our small candle couldn’t fight it and his flame quietly fainted away. The old hag threw him in a box where dozens of candles laid silently. Just like him, small pieces of wax with a black string. He smiled at them. These are still young – he said to himself- probably they just arrived from the factory. He looked at them. They all seamed the same. I wonder if they can light. Hmm… maybe. But wait for a second. I still can! Let’s see candle, can you? Just look at him. He burst into flame and how easily did the flame jump on the end of his string. See. I’m going to teach you this. We don’t need matches. The others stared at him amazed. Where does his light come from? Com’on, I’ll teach you. Follow me! I’ll show you another world.

A thin piece of wire was hanging near the box. You could descend on this candle. I know – he said – I was just thinking about it. And slowly they got down. They moved on, a long journey awaited them until they could get out of the house. Silently, on the tips of their toes so the witch wouldn’t here them, they crawled under the carpet, jumped over the huge crevasses in the floor. They set down, rested and he even taught them a few songs. Tiny wondering candle songs that he heard in the shop window, but somehow felt that the songs belonged to him. They continued their journey towards the giant doorstep. It was a huge challenge. Not only was it high, but slippery too. With great effort the small Flamer climbed up first and helped the one behind him. And this is how it went on. Some of them got up easier, for some of them it took more time and effort. If someone didn’t help the other, he told them that helping the other is the first step for the fire to burn in us.

A long road lay ahead of them. Danger was lurking in every corner of the house. He just grabbed them before the huge feet of the witch squashed them. Thanks God she didn’t see them. The other candles in the box just looked at them. They envied them. Why did he choose those candles, why those two dozens and not us? He saw something in them that was worth putting your faith into.

They crawled under the chair, passed the sink. The water was watching there every step but they safely succeeded to get around it. They were just starting to realize what a flame needed. Not a matchstick but something deeper. Here and there a small spark started to show. Oh, com’on. Maybe, maybe. We only have a little bit left and will reach the door and you’ll burst into flames.

They hurried, ran towards the door not looking out for each other. Just reach the door as soon as possible. Just him, the others can come afterwards. The small Flamer watched in horror. HE was frightened, he got scared. What happened to them? I don’t recognize them, or were they like this all along?

A rattle and the witch was already there. What’s going on here? You think that you can just leave like that? Turn back immediately! They stopped in front of the door. Our small candle felt the strength again and said. Let’s show her. Let me see how we blind the witch! Burst into flame! But nothing happened. He was standing there by himself, the others just looking at him but the light was nowhere to be found. Even that small sparkle was fading away. Come on! You can do it. But they lost their faith or were hurrying too much towards the door? The small Flamer looked in front of him with a broken heart. Why did you bight into stone with milk-teeth? He felt a bitter taste. It’s not possible. Everything, the doorstep, the adventures near the tap, the songs, helping each other. All in vane? Where is your flame? Light up! Nothing.

He pulled himself together again but not with the same enthusiasm. He looked at the witch and blinded her for a moment then opened the door. He looked around. A deep silence and white light formed a vale around him. He felt that something was disturbing his side. Wings started growing with soft feathers, strong muscles pointing to the sky. He couldn’t believe his eyes, jumped and in a second was flying towards the Unknown. Faster than the wind he was leaving everything behind him. He felt something heavy and reached to his pocket. Two stones. A black and a white one. HE looked at them carefully and threw the black one in the deep and looking at the white one hope came back to him once again….

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) The summer of 2005

 

You’re treading the mud….

You’re treading the mud….with hasty and heavy steps heading home in a small grey village….mud everywhere. Only the sound of dogs’ barking disturbs the eerie silence…and a wondering man. You hurry, ‘cause you know the moment that triggered this all already passed. As soon as possible you have to shed it on paper…You’re sitting here with and old pencil in your hand, writing on a piece of wrapping paper…It’s almost dawn. The guilt that you’ve just broken a strand of flower lives in you. It’s painful when someone is madly in love with you, would even give her life for you and you just push her away…You’ve changed. The sad and grumpy old man’s face emerged once again. Someone cries for nights in a row under a wrinkled blanket and prays for you and you just let this person on her own…. At the entrance of a small crumbling provincial bar have you truly spoken to her since you broke up, although you’ve seen her for days. You stare lengthily at her long hair running over her shoulders, her darkening strands of hair. Memories from the past invade your eyes. Summer nights on a Moon lit hillside…two youngsters coddled together…You smile but can’t say two words to her. You slowly head towards an old tree trunk and sit down. A corner full of memories where you wait to see her reaction. She slowly sits on your knees and falls in your arms. You only now feel the pressuring weight of what you’ve done. With a scared grasp you embrace her and press her body next to yours. Her long and silky hair runs over your shoulders. She commences in a slow and silent cry, her tiny teardrops fall on your hands… small, warm tears from a child’s heart…You just sit there, a numb old aged, and don’t even dare say a word…you tightly embrace her and in a soft voice ask her not to cry…She doesn’t listen to you… Amongst her silent sniffles a stream of tears poor into your hands. You realize that for the first time in your life you’ve truly broken someone, threw her away. Just hold her small gentle body, ‘cause you know that this is the last time when you’ll feel her warmth next to you. A kiss on her forehead and you slowly wipe her tears. “Breaking up will be easy”, that’s what you thought moreover you bragged to the others that if you want to, you can get together again. How foolish could you be?… By choice you’d merge with the dust of the road just not live with the thought that you’ve torn apart someone. Words are hard to find…In this cold and ruff world, her childish smile and pure soul was the escape you needed, and you just kicked all of this away from you, destroyed it…It’s to hard for her. You can’t even think and just stare at her soft crying face. A couple of words come out of your mouth, a last embrace and with a cold and seemingly alien kiss say good bye…You head home, treading the endless sea of mud. Why did you leave her? You cannot find an answer yet to this question, bust something deep inside you just didn’t want her anymore… Maybe this is what you were longing for, to feel the bitter taste of it all. A couple of moans, but there’s no answer…the mud splashes under your shoes. And you just wonder as a stray dog. I became a wonderer.

Szászdányán (Daia), 6^th of August 2006

 

Cream pie

…The ever increasing heat found its way again on the streets of the city. Thursday morning and only the thought of the weekend in my head. I just came out of the Tribunal a couple of minutes ago. I look around. Calm day we’re having today. Everyone is kind to me, the work isn’t that awful. On Deak Ferenc Street the workings heavily go on. A new pedestrian square for the inhabitants of the city…I sit down in front of a shop window. In my hands today’s breakfast and lunch. A sandwich… They overstuffed it again, the mayonnaise sparkles on my fingers and on the edge of the snitzel a slice of cucumber wickedly looks at me, jumps into the deep and falls on the ground… Sitting down for a moment, just to look around… Three bored workers in front of me waiting for noon. Pickaxes once again tear apart the brand new pavement. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. The skinniest of them all is heavily fighting a battle with the stubborn soil. His mates, resting on their shovels reassure him. The works go on in the city, especially in this summer heat… “Enjoy your meal” I hear the voice of a passerby. “Thanks”. I don’t know him, but it was a good feeling that he noticed. A simple bon apetite and a smile rushes through my face… A slender and attractive young mother is pushing her baby carriage. A pale blouse and a fluttering summer skirt. Her slim arms pushing the carriage from which a smiley baby looks at me. Who knows how frightened he must’ve been. A guy full of mayonnaise and unshaved for days is not the prettiest sight for a baby. I just turn my head to the right and what do I see? An incredible battle. A poor fat old guy wrestling with two naughty slices of cream pie. What a fight. With his paws he grabs the cream pies writing their last will. But the pies don’t give up the fight that easily. One of them stands up. It messes up his fingers and ugly face. But it cannot hold it on for long and falls victim to the new dentures. They crush it up. A swallow, and the poor slice of pie plunders into the deep stomach….Now it’s the other’s turn. But this one fights like hell. It swings to the right and to the left and falls back on the napkin. The old guy grabs it again and pushes his dagger like fingers into the back of the pie! But it doesn’t give up that easily! Taking a piece of cream it messes up the fat guy’s nose. A bite and it slides back on the napkin. The battle is almost lost. The yellow claws inflict more and more damage, a final bite, a swallow and our brave warrior is gone… Poor grandpa, he probably learned table manners from a heard of piglets. Cream flowed down his hands and under his eyebrows bundles of whipped cream decorated his wrinkled face. People all around him were staring but he didn’t notice them. He licked his hands. A tissue, a couple of wipes and the last remains of the two warriors were forever gone. A girl passes him. She smiles and struggles two hold back her laughter but sees me as I was laughing at the old guy. She smiles at me and walks away. I wipe my hands. The snitzel had found his home for a long time. With great effort I get up. Clean the dust of my trousers and head to the bus-station

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) 16^th of august 2007

 

Meeting God

 

I’m sitting in the bus-station just across the Tribunal, slightly bored. The heat is unbearable and here and there a dizzy old lady rushes towards a place with shadow. The pavement is dusty, the few strands of grass that broke through the pavement wilt under the scorching Sun and the street washing car is nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t find a place on the bench so I’m sitting on the railing near the bush. My dossier on my lap and the service phone in my pocket. The 32 is nowhere to be found. I think to myself what a great feeling would it be to lazily swim somewhere in the sea and not wait in a 40^o heat for a bus to take me back to the office. Time is almost still…

Suddenly my nose picks up a disturbing and repulsing smell. I look up and a bagger is standing in front of me, with long hair that probably hadn’t been washed for weeks. A couple of messy clusters of hair dangle on his shoulders. A dirty face, on his forehead amongst the wrinkles the strains of black dust are visible and his beard probably hadn’t seen a raiser for a while. 40 degrees heat on the thermometers and the guy is standing in fornt of me with a long green and tattered coat. Two scruffy old clujana boots decorate his legs. One of his toes just broke out from this infernally hot dungeon. “Can I sit down?” – he asks me in a hoarse but slightly soft voice. “Why not…” ­– I answer, what could he possibly do to me? In the worst case I’ll fall on my back because of the smell, but my nose is not that sensitive. “Who are you?” ­– he asks me. “A simple student who instead of partying somewhere is sitting here for a couple of bucks and dying under the Sun”. – I answer in a slightly bored voice, ‘cause in times like this I’m not that sociable. “I’m asking you one more time. Who are you?” – he repeats his previous question with a stronger tone. “What do you care? Hadn’t I just told you, that I’m a student? Don’t you want an account of my life? And just who are you?” – and my veins started rising near my forehead, because in this infernal hit a nosy bagger was just what I asked for. “Well I’m God” ­– he simply tells me and an unusually childish smile appears on his face. “Dear Saint Virgin Mary” ­– I say to myself. “Not only does he stink like hell, but probably in a couple of minutes to strong guys will take him back to the nuthouse”- “Why do you think I’m crazy?” – he asks me a lil’bit frightened. “Who, me? Oh no, did I say anything?” – and I felt that the situation is starting to get uncomfortable. “Then why did you think that two strong chaps will have to take me back to the nuthouse” – he asks me with that same childish smile “Whaaatt…” and the words got stuck in my throat. “Who are you once again?” ­– asking me for the third time. ‘’Maaann. Just a man” – I stutter slightly shaken. “Then hiyya man, I’m God” – he says it with a huge smile and puts out his wrinkled hand towards me. I do the same, hold out my hand when suddenly the 32 arrived. I get my dossier and jump on the bus. I heard a voice and never saw him again … “We’ll meet again man…”

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) 3^rd of August 2007

 

Maybe the time has come to write again…

Maybe the time has come to write again…One o’clock past midnight and just a few lights flicker on, somewhere on the edge of the street. A lot happened during my last month, probably to much… It’s hard to write now, ‘cause I struggle to arrange my thoughts… For weeks I wondered between a dream and reality… And maybe I don’t want to wake up soon. The two persons finally met each other. Until now they somehow lived separate lives with everyone’s share of happiness. Probably I thought that a difficult road lies ahead of me, but I jumped into it. I called upon the dreamer, the child woke up. The child, that I only sometimes let to come out on a summer night or nights haunted by loneliness in Kolozsvár. And he erupted as a flaming storm. I got scared…’Cause I head to sit down and look me in the eye and ask the fundamental question. Who really am I? No one recognized me anymore, they saw the person that I was hiding within me. They were frightened too… Now I just sit here wondering who was SHE – child or a woman, angel or demon, a dream or just sheer cold reality. Her flaming kisses still burn my lips and what ever I do I cannot turn them off. Is she playing with me? Probably… Am I playing with her? When I see her yes and I try to be indifferent, but somewhere deep inside the child suffers. I experienced really strange weeks. I fell into a seemingly bottomless pit, I tried to hold on with my hands to emptiness and just kept on falling. But somehow I stopped at a moment, reached out my hands, curved my knees and got up. Who should I live with? This is the question. I put my headphones on my ears and just ride on buses like a shadow, looking at what’s happening around me…. My legs become numb, I look around and see the giggling child, the nostalgic old man, the smile on the bagger’s face… the smile. I see myself. And I feel happy, ‘cause I can see the world. People swarm on the streets and not seemingly lifeless grey shadows… I’m looking for the person. Is this my calling? Maybe. And the other one shows himself, who doesn’t want to see all this, because he knows that probably everything is in vain and maybe shadows roam the streets after all. How simple can we humans be, and sometimes how miserable. Because it’s visible; the lack of affection. A small hug, a kind word or just a faint smile. Why should all of this be missing? Maybe we are afraid, ‘cause we’re not capable to be slightly better than we are, we cannot see the person. I can feel this mostly in my own family. A little bit of affection and understanding and all the troubles go out in the distance. It’s a risky game, I found that out. You can be easily wounded these times, you let down your guard and let others see who you really are. But not everyone sees the person. Many still wonder around blindly on the streets.

Interesting. For the first time in my life I can truly dream. Many have told me that I should try leaving in the world of reality… I can only ask one question upon hearing this… Which world is this? Please someone show me, ‘cause maybe I’m the one who doesn’t see it or I don’t know where to look. Maybe they just forgot how to dream or just are scared of it. And then they shut themselves away, put on their metal masks and happily live their indifferent lives. Do I pursue my dreams or live in reality? Will it be a compromise. Maybe this’ll be the answer but it’s hard to tell now.

My interview within three days. If I’m lucky I could spend a year in the Netherlands with a scholarship. Reasons: to get familiar with foreign legal systems, getting closer to the European spirit, developing my carrier etc. At least this is how it says in my CV. Real motives? Freedom. Being alone in a foreign country, far away from everyone I know. I have to find myself, I have to finally know who I am and what is my purpose in life. Living alone for a while, letting the dreamer come to life. This seems really far away now, but I dare dream and believe in my dreams. Who am I going to be within a year? I cannot say, ‘cause I don’t know the answer and don’t even want to know. The Tuesday 9 o’clock will arrive, the judging committee and the finely dressed eminent student. How will he defend his application? He’ll probably decide then and there and maybe even allow the dreamer to speak for a moment. Two days and three nights still separate me. Who knows who will wake up in the morning?…

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), 20^th of May 2007

 

Silence surrounds me again…

…Silence surrounds me again…Everyone’s asleep. It’s interesting the number of things that can trigger the urge in you to write… Already 3 weeks past from the last time I put something on paper and insomnia grabs me again.. I know it’s not worth going to sleep, ‘cause it will haunt me all night long…. An exam tomorrow, it’s already past midnight and I’m still standing here… A message yesterday, a simple sentence with a couple of words; the results of the previous exam are ready. I don’t waste time, get my trousers, fix my hair and run to the bus station… A particularly beautiful day in comparison with the last few weeks of rain. All around the city the growing strength of the Sun could be felt and even a couple of naughty wafts found their way threw the grey concrete walls. The bus just arrived, number 7…The atmosphere is bearable – I say to myself; the bus isn’t that crowded and the heat is liveable too… It ventured slowly towards the centre, hitting one or two holes in the road here and there, but who cared. The same bored and seemingly old face appears in front of me in the window’s reflection. I wink my eyes Eaahh, I’m ugly. This exam session can be bad for you I think to myself. A new bus stop, just in front of the Two Forked Church. In the midst of the teacher’s yelling a group of noisy children get on the bus at my left hand…My head turns away and in an instance my legs become numb and cannot even move. How did she get here, who, what is she? – I ask myself. A tall, slender, deer like girl stood near me… less than a step away. A simple pair of trousers and a small top flittered on her body; her wavy brown hair diddled towards her waist, covering her half naked shoulders. I just stood there, not being able to say a word. Looking at her soft and silk like skin my eyes met with hers. Particularly black eyes, the pupil and the iris almost blurred together… I was mesmerized. A tiny smile appeared on her feminine but in many ways still childish face. That wicked tiny smile that can drive a man crazy. Slowly, with a proud stature she turned away. Nervously I too turned away and started staring at the group of children standing next to me. Outside everything’s the same. We’ve just passed my old school. I look out of the window with a false interest to see if the works on the road moved up lately… Suddenly something bumps into me…or someone? I look down. A small school girl hit me with her schoolbag as she ran to the other end of the bus… I huff with anger, when my eyes were caught again by those black eyes. She looks at me… another smile runs over her gentle face. What does it mean?… I just look like a clown and anger doesn’t suit me or she can just see my flagged face….Or is she just smiling, ‘cause she too shares my traveller faith… I look up. Oh, I should get of… Hastily I struggle my way out of the children and a jump later I was already standing on the sidewalk. I straighten my jacket, check if my wallet is still their and suddenly it hits me that the bus just went away… A last glance. My eyes meet hers, and the vehicle disappears in the distance…. A moment, or some minutes that were worth more than my last few weeks. Who knows? Maybe on a dull summer day my eyes will once again meet does charcoal eyes…Or maybe I’ll never see them again. I look ahead in the noise and mayhem of the street, mutter something and with bored steps I head to the university…

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), 14^th of July 2006

 

Strange feeling sitting down

…. Strange feeling sitting down… You’re afraid of it but still something in you says that you must…and you feel it tearing you apart… and you still don’t undertake it. You’re a coward, you withhold it, gradually grind yourself and still find the strength for it…and you sit down and start writing. Not knowing about what, about whom, but simply sit down and write… Maybe you will write the world’s masterpiece or just a couple of meaningless rows of thoughts which at 70 years of age you’ll find in the back corner of a dusty old shelf… and it’ll be a good feeling to find that dusty old paper, because although we can never truly translate our thoughts into writing, you’ll never have a better picture of what you felt when you were 19.

I’m sitting in a small room in Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), silence all around me… The sound of Kelly Family from my computer; it’s passed midnight… And how different it is to write at this time, different to live, to feel… Probably everything that you hold in yourself seems childish now, but you know that it will haunt you for days, weeks if you cannot spill it out of yourself. It’s hard being 19 years old. Probably harder than ever before in my short life. Another world emerges in front of your eyes, not the one you believed in; you’re not the person you thought you are or you just don’t know who you are a year after you truly asked yourself this question. Strange animals are we humans, especially grownups. How many times would you like to be a child again (and many people would laugh now, ‘cause according to many of them a person my age is still a child; and probably they’re right), sitting in a small forgotten village, seeing how you play the world of the grownups with your cousins and brother. And you’re saying to your self “I wish I could be a grownup so I can command to whomever I want to and slap my grandchild if I want to”. And a couple of years later you realize that you were once so wrong and how many times would you accept your granny’s slap instead of the daily slaps that life provides you. Because HE doesn’t explain anything…just hits you…doesn’t tell you why…doesn’t tell you until when…from this moment onwards sonny tighten your trousers, ‘cause you don’t know a thing about ME…and probably we’ll never be able to know. People all around you change or you just didn’t see them and they were like this all the time. Probably you lived in a lie all your life, but it somehow felt better than the dire truth.

I feel old. How many times does it haunt me that the people who surround me, the people who brought me up are just not the same anymore. You don’t even recognize your friends anymore…Yourself either. A part of you always pursues to be liked by others and does everything in his powers so people accept him and the other shuts himself away, puts a lock on himself and quietly hides in his hole, sometimes sniffing the air outside but smelling its rotten odour retreats back. Sometimes you play the role of the happy, joyful young man, the smart, the courageous and some even look at you and say with envy “He has it so well, dang I would like to be like him”. And you quietly smile, play the comedy, go home, go to sleep and your real face emerges… not a strong young man, but an already old, curved backed, disfigured and grey haired disheartened old man. With heavy steps he comes forward, grouches and slaps you… Wake up asshole, who the hell do you think you are again?… and you just sit, ‘cause you know that this disfigured old man is the one who opens your eyes and when you are sitting with your companions he can shut you off. He takes the smile of your face in a blink of an eye and you wake up that people all around you ask to where the hell have you wondered again, ‘cause for minutes you don’t pay attention to them. Strange old guy… In minutes he can take away that tiny happiness and you don’t see the one standing next to you as he covers his girlfriend’s lips with true or false kisses, but you see yourself sitting alone and disfigured… I’m listening to Gyögyhajúlány (The girl with pearly hair)… Nobody around you… The world’s most miserable and excluded, alone in the endless shadows, locked up…You wish to scream, but your throat dries up, your mouth tightens, you lay down your eyes and smile, ‘cause this is what we have to do, right?…and politely turn away. Then you go home. Your day already ruined and the smile washes away from your face. They ask you what’s wrong with you, if someone is home. You just mutter and shut yourself away, ‘cause you think that this’ll help.

And you eat your food which your mother already doesn’t put in front of you, but you get it out of the fridge and start nibbling on it alone. The food doesn’t really slide down your dry throat but there is nothing you can do, ‘cause this is a part of your life too….I already filled a page and erased my first sentence… Maybe it’s already hard to write. I look over what I’ve written, change it but it won’t be the same I as imagined it… 30 minutes ago your brother left to see his girlfriend, to console her in family matters. He spends the little money that he has on a cab just to get to her as quickly as he can. And you quietly sit in a room and pretend to sleep (you even open your mouth to mimic that you’re snoring) and sharpen your ears to hear what he’s talking about on the phone. And you receive another slap on your face from HIM. Not even your brother is the same. Probably a distortioned old man haunts him too, but you cannot know it. You can talk to everyone, even listen to a drunken guy and give him seemingly smart advices, as if you knew what life is. Probably you’ll even quote from someone just to seam smarter. But you cannot sit down with your brother to change some true words. You can’t ask him a decent question, can’t give him an advice and don’t even dare to tell him what haunts you. Not the image of a strong older brother, but that of an old man, just like you appears in front of you; who during the night goes to be with someone who he is madly in love with, but maybe she cannot give all of this back to him, or maybe she’s in love too. Who are you to judge? And in an animalic way you don’t fight for love anymore – to be a careless teen going to sleep with someone in his arms under the shadow of an old pine tree and glancing at the Moon bathing everything with its light – but for yourbasic instinct to sleep with someone. Discouraging, that someone who considers himself smart can fall this deep to think of nothing else lately. We humans are strange, not at all different from our four legged relatives. Maybe that sometimes we try to think, but not always….Maybe this’ll be it for tonight, ‘cause words aren’t pouring as before and that moment that triggered this all is long gone…There’s no need to force it anymore…maybe tomorrow, or the day after, or maybe after a year I’ll sit down once again and start writing… 1 hour and 16 minutes. Time to sleep.

Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), 23^rd of May 2006