Chapter 4

After He created man,
the Creator gave him the capacity for knowledge,
the power to exert his spirit
and dominion over himself.
But what does man do with these?

It is now Saturday, July 12, 1997. I have just finished making lunch for your husband Yaniv, your son Jonah Lee, and Kaz, who has been my gardener since 1968.

I am aware that Bubbles, my Springer Spaniel, is snarling at our other dogs, a Briard called Pepe and a Shorthaired Pointer called Shiri. I know that Bubbles should have been put down some time ago, but I do not have the heart to do it. My beloved wife Rita, blessed be her memory, raised Bubbles since the puppy was six weeks old. Bubbles is now over twelve years old. I remember when I first saw Bubbles, and how Rita had selected her from among the other puppies. Rita said to me, “The first puppy who will approach me and stay near me the longest, that will be mine.” So Bubbles came home with us.

Bubbles is becoming more excited, and she goes into a seizure. I take her to the vet. As the car approaches Dr. Weiner’s building, Bubbles shivers and shakes. By the time we make it into the office she is on her back, legs straight up in the air, tongue hanging out, foaming at the mouth. Dr. Weiner and his assistant help me put her on the table. The doctor gives her a shot. Bubbles’ large eyes look deeply into mine before she goes to sleep. It touches me profoundly. Bubbles and I say goodbye to each other, reassured that she will rejoin Rita, whom she loved and mourned each day since Rita died.

A memory from my youth surfaces. I was twelve years old, and I had found a puppy abandoned in the street. I took her home. I tried to give her some milk. She salivated and began to turn in circles. It was clear that she had distemper. I took her to the town’s vet, whose office was in the town hall. Upon seeing her, he took out his pistol and shot her on the spot. I cried as I walked home. I did not know at the time that throughout my life I would shed many tears for those I loved and would eventually lose.

The day we had all waited for finally came: The iron gate opened for us to walk through. It was about nine o’clock on a Friday morning. I remember this day well. My mother and sister met us at the gate and my family was at last united. But where does a family without a home or country go, in a city unkind to strangers? The streets were piled with fresh snow, and we were hungry. That morning they had not fed us. The authorities led us to the storage facility to collect our few belongings. The procedures took a long time. Then we were all alone on the street, free once again, but it was a constrained freedom. We needed to find a place to live, and then we had to register with the police— all on the same day.

My mother sighed and said, “One step at a time, and we’ll manage.”

She was always reassuring in her voice, and reminded us not to weaken our resolve. She never doubted herself. She was my mother; I expected nothing less from her. My sister Sara cuddled up to my father, who offered her some extra warmth and reassurance.

My shoes needed repair, as did my father’s. The snow soaked through to our feet. I ignored the discomfort; it was not the first time my feet had been ice cold. My shoes laced halfway up my leg. In my hometown, where mud was deep, low-cut shoes would not stay long on your feet. The patches on the soles of my shoes were loose. My toes moved and I could feel the water playing a tune as it rolled from toe to toe, bathing the rest of my feet.

My mother’s father, Herman, had three brothers. They lived in Budapest, and they had changed their name from Deutsch to Némét because it was more Hungarian sounding. I had met one of the Néméts—my mother’s cousin—when I was brought to the children’s hospital for my ear problem a few years before. He was a physician at the hospital by the name of Gyula Némét. He was young and handsome, and because of him the hospital staff had treated me well.

One of my great uncles was named Farkas Némét. Farkas, which means “wolf,” had a shoe factory on a street called Dob Utca. The other two brothers were Joseph and Simon. Joseph had been an engineer in Budapest, though I didn’t meet him until later in life. Simon owned a men’s hat shop. He lived near the east station not too far from Toloncz Ház. My mother said, “We shall go to see Uncle Simon.” We had no money for the trolley car or a taxi, so we picked up our things and walked toward his home on a street called Thökly Ut.

To have the freedom to walk on the street was a great feeling. A warm glow rose in my chest—a glow that has never left me, even today. With each step we took, my hope grew in anticipation of our destination. We had no chendör behind us, bayonets drawn from their sheaths. People did not stare at us. Sometimes they glanced at us in passing, then turned their heads away. We were now ordinary people, going somewhere. Only we knew that somewhere was really nowhere, a house in the city that we would come to unannounced and unexpected. What was that place, really? For us at this moment it was simply Thökly Ut 27, the home of my great uncle Simon.

My mind was creating too many thoughts. My feelings were mixed. My feet were cold and wet, and I felt I could use something warm inside me. Yet I had hope that we would have a better existence than we had in Bodrogkeresztur. My family remained silent, hesitant as we always were to share our feelings with one another, even at a time when we needed each other’s support the most.

In time we arrived at Simon’s apartment house. I had never seen this type of building. It had four floors and no elevator. My great uncle lived on the second floor, apartment number 2. There was a huge courtyard on the inside of the building, and each floor had an iron handrail around it to prevent people from falling. My mother told us that Uncle Simon was a widower and that his two sons and daughter lived there with him. The physician, Gyula, was the oldest. Lacy was the middle child, and Magda was the youngest.

The tall apartment door was painted creamy white and decorated with carvings. The handles were shiny brass. We were all apprehensive as we stood in front of it. My mother knocked with the brass knocker. A maid looked through the peephole. She recognized my mother and opened the door for us, and told us to wait in the foyer while she informed Uncle Simon that we were here. The foyer was very small; we could hardly move. We had to leave our belongings outside to avoid falling over them.

A man came through another tall white door. He had a handlebar mustache but no beard. He was about my height, stocky and neatly dressed in a gray business suit. My mother greeted him, “Hello, Simon Bátchy.”

My uncle did not reply with a warm welcome, but instead spoke with an angry tone: “What are you doing in my house? I do not want you here.”

We were shaken by his voice. My mother spoke again. “Simon Bátchy, we need food for the children. Have a heart. We do not intend to stay. Lajos and I will look for a room where we can go. Let the children stay.”

Uncle Simon gave some instructions to the maid. Then, after many unpleasantries, he agreed to let my sister and I stay while my mother and father looked for a place for all of us. He did not offer my parents food. The maid gave me and my sister some milk to drink but nothing else. We were told to stay in the hall. He didn’t ask what had happened to us. He was not interested.

I do not know how the rest of my family felt at this reception, but I remember how I felt. I felt as if we were nothing but people to be despised. I did not wish for a hug. I was not envious of his wealth. All I wanted was to be treated as a human being. I was glad to have met him, as he was my grandfather’s brother, but I felt denigrated by him.

For the second time in my short life, I experienced feelings of worthlessness in the eyes of a family member. I felt hurt and rejected. I felt resentment toward my uncle. I did not understand how a brother of my grandfather could act so callous and uncaring. We had the same blood in our veins, but he acted as if he were afraid that we would contaminate his home. We were intruders in his life—but it was for just a few moments in a lifetime.

Rav Samuel had taught me that as soon as I felt resentment or anger, I should not allow myself to indulge in them but rather walk through and out of them. This way I would not choke my chai, my life force, which I needed to nourish my growing body and expanding mind. As I was thinking and feeling this, I was determined to remember that his attitude was his problem and not mine. I would only consider him with respect for having given us a brief way station. I would replace my hurt with a feeling of hope for the future. This experience was a lesson in the reality that one’s family might not be enough to help in life’s journey. You need the help of strangers, of thousands of strangers. One day I would be such a stranger who could help someone else in need.

My teacher used to tell us children that every thought, every feeling, and even indifference is recorded in one’s guff, one’s physical body, and manifested itself in health or sickness. The human body did not grow randomly, nor did the mind. It is affected by the actions of the individual or by the conditions forced upon one by others, by stresses that are both solicited and unwanted. Rationalization of stress does not release it. My teacher’s instructions were helpful in these trying and lonely moments.

As I was absorbed in these thoughts, my cousin Lacy emerged from his room and nodded his head as he left the apartment—a bare acknowledgment of my sister’s and my presence. As he left, my thoughts took me back to one of my best friends from childhood, whose name was Lacy Frommer. This Lacy was one year younger than I. I was his big brother. He was short for his age and very fragile. He lived in my same building when my family lived with my grandmother Betty.

Lacy Frommer’s mother was imprisoned for some time for political activity against the regime in Ujhely, located in eastern Hungary near the Cárpátian mountains bordering Czechoslovakia. During this time his paternal grandmother and his aunts Frieda and Rozsi looked after him. His grandmother, Frommer Néni, was the woman who had shielded me from my father’s temper.

The news came that Lacy’s mother was released from prison and that she would soon come to take her son with her to where she lived. Lacy was very disturbed by the news. He had never known his mother, who had been imprisoned when he was only a few months old. His father was a cobbler whose health was bad and finances were poor; he had spent some time in a sanitarium to be treated for tuberculosis.

The time for Lacy to leave arrived in the summer of 1927, a few days after Tisha B’Av, a mournful day in the lives of Jews the world over. It is a day that commemorates the burning of the temple in Jerusalem in the year 70 A.D. by the conquering Romans. It is a fast day. Now everyone in the Frommer family was mournful, as was I, for I would surely not see my friend again.

A carriage drove into our yard, and a tall, slender woman with fur wrapped around her shoulders stepped out of the carriage. She wore a suit with skirts almost to her ankles; her face was half-hidden under the lace that fell from her hat. She was beautiful, but she was my enemy because she was here to take my good friend away. The woman walked quickly toward the Frommers’ door, where she was met by her husband and the rest of the family. Lacy stood with me in the yard. He did not want to go and meet her. Lacy and I held hands as if to say to each other that this couldn’t be true, and we hoped he would not have to leave. He cried the entire time we were together in the yard.

Lacy’s father emerged from the house and called him to come in. Lacy went reluctantly. He was there for what seemed like an endless time. I realized then that he was leaving for good. When Lacy returned he was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, bow tie, pants with knee-length stockings, and a pair of new shoes. He came over to me and my mother and we said goodbye. With tears in his eyes he entered the carriage that had come for him. They drove off to a new world and I never saw him again.

We heard years later that Lacy was killed by the side of the River Bodrog. A horse that he was washing in the river kicked him in the head. He fell unconscious into the river and drowned.

Many lives in one lifetime, many loves and many hurts in one lifetime. We die with each pain and are reborn in the light of understanding that pain. Herein lies the enigma of growth and life. Without knowing the depths of human suffering, no peace can grow in the human heart. To find meaning in all activity, in all conditions, is a great undertaking for anyone, let alone a youngster just beginning the journey of life. Lacy died, but he left me his friendship and love. I needed to remind myself of his love while I waited for my parents in my uncle’s unwelcoming home.

As a young person, I had to make a choice. Life presents options, which means you have to make decisions. These decisions will either enhance your life or cause you to regress, for there can never be a standing still in anything. The feeling of chai, the life force, is an expression of a person’s ability to live in the present moment and be ready and willing to make decisions. Everyone’s chai demands action. At the same time, it offers no guarantee as to the outcome.

I had a choice between holding on to my faith or abandoning it in reaction to all that had transpired in our lives during this short time. I found it necessary to summon the Hebrew word “ Israel,” Yesher-El, meaning “My portion is God.” God has faith in each and every human being. God has faith in human beings regardless of their beliefs, for the nonbelieving person is as important as the believing one. Faith cannot be acquired; it is born in all of mankind. All I had to do was activate it. I needed to activate my faith in the supremacy of life over my emotions, over my mind. I had to realize that I had been fashioned for a definite and wise purpose. All I had to do was to accept what was before me. Choose your spirit. Choose your chai. Your mind will follow.

My teacher’s words came to mind: “Forgiveness heals the heart and the mind, and when these are healed, the human body, the guff, responds as chai, life force, and exerts its influence in a person’s daily activities.” Now I had to forgive my great uncle’s behavior, even if I did not approve of it. I would not judge him. Perhaps he felt pain as we did, seeing his brother’s child and grandchildren in this predicament. He too was helpless to some degree. Seeing it from his point of view, the pain and the embarrassment were somehow not so searing.

The faith of my entire family was tested to its fullest. I saw their stress clearly. Every move, every line under their eyes, on their foreheads and in their faces, were impressed in my heart. I found strength within myself, but they never told me how they felt, nor did I hear them divulge their feelings to each other, except when they had words of discord. Sara was my sister; we had the same parents. But we were not close. I knew I had a sister; she knew she had a brother. But we did not know each other.

The experience of being uprooted would somehow lead us to something better, I thought. Maybe this is a chance to realize our dream of living in America. It was a dream, a hope, a wish; not just my but our dream. This was not the time to dream dreams, yet my heart told me, “I will dream again!”

It was about three o’clock when my parents returned from their search. “We have found a room on Dob Utca,” my mother told my sister and me. The address was number 10. Sue, when I and your mother, blessed be her memory, visited Budapest in 1989, that building was still there! I showed her where I had lived as a young man, where life’s lessons were to continue for a long time.

We picked up our belongings and we started walking again. We were headed to a place of new beginnings. The streets were long, and Rákoczi Ut was especially long. The people who watched us go by wondered what kind of creatures we were. We looked as if we had come from some backward country. It took us a long time to walk from Thökly Ut to Dob Utca, the center of Jewish life in the big city. On the way to Dob Utca, I observed people dressed in clothes that I had never seen before. I saw streetcars and horse-drawn carriages, shop windows decorated with clothing, hats, and shoes, and ladies running after men. It was an incredible experience for my country senses.

Dob Utca 10 was a huge apartment complex. The room my parents had rented was large enough for one bed and one cot, which I slept on. My sister slept at the foot of the bed with my parents. We were not given privileges to use the kitchen or tub or to wash our clothes. Four to six toilets served all the inhabitants of each floor. I learned to watch where I stepped, as not everyone used the bowl for its intended purpose. I had to furnish my own paper to wipe myself. Sanitation was pig-style. We settled in the best way we knew. And now Sabbath was coming.

We had no food in our room. We had no food, period. During the day, while my father looked for another place to stay, my mother went to see the Jewish Agency to see if they could help us somehow. They informed her that they would provide us with food twice a week, Friday night and Sabbath morning, both times after the services. They gave us a paper to show that we were allowed to eat there.

The kitchen and mess hall were located on the corner of Kazinsky and Dohány Streets. The dining area was an ordinary room. The walls were painted light green. The tables were long and covered with white linen tablecloths. The traditional two candles burned in brass candle holders. Here we had a warm meal for the first time since gaining our freedom. We were all thankful for what we received.

An elderly gentleman, one of the indigents among us, said Kiddush, the blessing over the wine, and Motzi, the blessing over the chalah, the traditional bread. He said, “Blessed are you O God for having brought forth the fruit of the wine,” and “Blessed are you O God for having brought forth the bread from the earth.” The lighting of the candles and the Kiddush took me back to our home in Bodrogkeresztur. I remembered hearing my mother’s quiet prayer, and watching her as she lit the candles and explained their significance to us.

“You know, children, the candle on Sabbath is not intended just to provide us with light. It symbolizes the rekindling of our hopes, like the winter sun that warms our bodies and reminds us that after darkness, light must follow.”

She continued to instruct us before she served our meals. “The flame is a single entity. But as you can see now, it undergoes constant change. The white flame is always constant, but the exterior of the flame is always in motion and its color changes. So do our individual lives. We must rediscover our life’s powers so that they may illuminate our world every day.”

I came back from my memories when the elder gentleman said, “May the light of the Sabbath candles unify us in our body and soul, in the presence of God, and in the community of mankind.” We lined up for soup, gefilte fish, and a piece of chicken. After our meal we went back to our room and slept, this time not on a concrete floor but somewhere better.

The next morning, the Sabbath, my father and I, in clothes that were ragged but neat, our shoes polished with spit, went to the nearest temple, which was just three blocks away on Kazinsky Street. Later I learned that there was another synagogue, the famous Dohány Temple, which was for the “neolog,” reform-minded Jews. There were a dozen smaller congregations all around, within walking distance from people’s homes. The ultra-orthodox, with their long black robes, stramel (fur hats), and talis (prayer shawls) over their shoulders, went to their own temples to pray.

The Kazinsky synagogue was the largest orthodox synagogue in Budapest. It was a magnificent structure. Stained glass windows adorned its sides. I was filled with awe as I walked inside. Every seat was assigned to someone who was a paying member, so my father and I sat toward the rear. To hear the chant of the hazan, or cantor, was my desire, for I had never heard a real cantor before. The service started at eight in the morning and finished at one o’clock in the afternoon. Everyone else could go home to partake of the Sabbath meal, but my family had only the public kitchen. Under the circumstances, it was a blessing.

On Saturday afternoons, even if it was cold and slushy, I walked around to get acquainted with the neighborhood. I window-shopped as I roamed. It was quite a contrast, seeing Jewish people walking the streets leisurely while Christian people worked at their regular jobs. I saw mechanics working on tricycles, motorcycles, and trucks. Stores were open, stores like I had never seen before. It was all new and to be savored. But what of tomorrow? What next?

As the evening of the Sabbath approaches, a torch is lit to signify the bringing together of the lights of two candles, the bringing of light into our lives. We would have to visualize this light. In the coming week, we would have to be forgiving. We would have to look at our nails and hands in front of the flame to gauge if we had enough light and to see the nails on our fingers which constantly grow. This is done to remind us that we must grow internally every day of the week, for it is believed that the Neshamah Yetairah, the super-soul received by human beings on the Sabbath, leaves from the nail. Because we had no candles or torch, the stars became our symbolic light at this end of the first Sabbath since our freedom from prison.

At the ceremonial end to the Sabbath and the beginning of the new week, my father and I started to look for work. Not far from our rooming house was a dairy store. I went in and introduced myself to the owner, and gave him my story. He hired me to deliver milk to homes in the neighborhood. I had to start work at four o’clock in the morning, but I would be through by eight-thirty in the morning. I accepted gladly. My wages were enough to pay for our room for one week. My father was not so lucky. He could not find a job so easily.

I delivered milk all through the month of May, and then the dairy owner let me go to replace me with one of his family members. I found another job as an apprentice in a neighborhood store. I worked from four in the morning until nine in the evening. I was paid about fifteen pengös a month, which was equivalent to about three dollars. I went to the wholesale market and picked up a sack of flour or potatoes to bring back to the store before it opened at seven o’clock in the morning. I kept this job for several months.

In early 1936, my mother found an apartment on the second floor on Kazár Utca. It had a kitchen, a pantry, a fair-sized bedroom, and a small room adjoining the bedroom. My mother furnished the apartment with secondhand furniture, making payments on a weekly basis. We still did not have our own indoor plumbing, but the toilets were cleaner than at Dob Utca 10.

My father found a job as a liquor chemist, creating new kinds of liquors at a fast-food restaurant near the west railroad station, Nyugati. It paid well, and between our two paychecks we managed quite well. The restaurant was known as the Ulovich Automated, and it was famous in all of Hungary. My father shaved off his beard because his job required it, but luckily he did not have to work on Saturdays.

I let my hair grow out, and my side locks disappeared. I became a city dweller and associated not just with Jewish people but with people from all walks of life. My small-town horizons were now expanding. My current job was too strenuous, so I found a different job as an apprentice salesman. I sold both wholesale and retail sewing goods: buttons, lace, threads, needles, and the like. It paid about twenty pengös a month. I started at seven in the morning and worked twelve hours each day Monday through Friday. On Saturday night I worked from sundown to midnight.

On Sundays I did not work. Sunday was a time for reflection, for going to the park to listen to the brass bands. I used my time to keep notes on all that had happened during our experiences. I also used my free time to read. I loved the writings of Jókai Mór, the poetry of Petöfis, the history of composers, and the writings of Maimonides, Yehuda Halevy, Plato, and Aristotle. These books I borrowed; I could not purchase them. On Sundays I walked to Teréz Square to read the newspaper that hung on the wall of the publisher’s building. I walked everywhere; it was good for me. My feet were cheap transportation. I still walk today; there is nothing better to keep your health up.

And I kept hoping for a better life. I had been taught that a person is a better observer when dreaming or daydreaming than when he is awake. So on Sundays, while letting myself go, I recalled the images of my short life and tried to understand what they had to teach me.

My teacher, Rav Samuel, used to say that we have three parts to us: ruach, the conscious part; nefesh, the unconscious; and neshemah, the soul, which belongs to God. But there was also a fourth part, a part that must be recovered from the images around us that we take in. These images may disturb or educate us. We establish peace in ourselves by accepting their content and the meanings they hold. Rav Samuel urged that all of us should recall these images during a time of relaxation. This is the time when they exert their greatest influence and exhibit their power to the conscious mind.

The practice of dreaming consciously liberates the self; it elevates the self to a level where it can know its own value. When I reflected like this, I called on all that I had been taught to give me strength and help me through the loneliness and fears that at times assaulted me. I watched as my childhood disappeared and I assumed the role of an adult at the age of 15. Facing adulthood was the unknown. Facing the unknown is a challenge that cannot be denied. It had to be experienced, and adulthood was already in me, waiting patiently.