Parting
Family albums have always fascinated me.
I found some, in abandoned houses,
or in the garbage,
sometimes I'm shown one at the old people's home,
and I also keep looking at an album of my mother.
She was so young back then.
Of course she was.
It is written:
Dad Me, back when I was still a nice, good little girl.
1949, Szolnok
Just married, registry office
I knew them, just like a child knows his parents.
I knew them as Mom and Dad.
Mom had depressions and drank too much.
When I turned fifteen, she killed herself.
My dad went to work and made a point of being very bright. He liked to tell stories in which he was the great guy.
I grew up and left home.
My father and I argued a lot, finally I decide not to see him anymore.
After 13 years I got in touch with my father again. I didn´t want him go without saying good-bye.
Over the last few years my father slowly dwindled away.
Now it is too late to get to know him.
My mother started writing a diary three months before I was born and kept it up for about three years.
Later on, she threw her entries into the rubbish bin.
My father fished them out of there, and somehow the whole thing ended up with me.
07.01.1960
I don’t know whether you will be a boy or a girl, and I don’t even know if you will ever read this at all once you grow up, but it will certainly be interesting for me one day, years from now, to read about what you were like when you were a little child. You will be born in about two months, and then you will already have a name; right now you are just "the kid," even though you have already strongly become the center of our lives- or at least of mine. You are heavy and you´re kicking hard. Sometimes into uncomfortable places, too. Once you kicked your father so hard that he woke up from it. We infer quite peculiar things from your behavior. Whether you will be a boy or a girl, whether you will look like your father or like me. . The joy is that you live, you move, you exist. This is surely unbelievable to anyone who hasn't gone through it, but I love you already. (…)
10.03.1960
Today you are three weeks old, my little son. You were born on February eighteenth, at 6:45 in the morning.
Because you turned out to be a boy, it is not likely that you will ever read the story of your life as I see it. True, for now it is rather the story of my life, because even now you belong to me just as much as you did before your birth. Not because of the feeding. You are so tiny and helpless that you can't really be called an independent person yet. You are a tiny little animal. You eat, you sleep, and of course you poop.
At first, you didn't want to eat. You always slept. You made me cry twice because of this. I couldn't bring myself to wake you up with a slap.
Your ears, mouth, and eyes are just like your father's. Only your ears are hairy. Your forehead too. Supposedly it will go away. Your hair is brown. And it stands up like a hedgehog's spikes. The whole thing stands straight up.
When you’re hungry, you open your mouth wide and turn your head wildly, hoping that somehow you’ll find the source of food. If you don’t succeed, you turn red and start screaming.
You always scream during bath time. Otherwise, only at dawn. At that time, you are already hungry.
But you only get food at 6 o'clock. We are awfully strict with you. Meanwhile, of course, our hearts almost break because we feel so sorry for you. But there must be order.
13.04.1960
Today you really annoyed me. You've been screaming all day. And in the evening, during the "admiration hour" (it's called that because when your father comes home and it's time for feeding, I always ask him, "well, are you coming to admire your son?"), you made such a stupid face the whole time that we were completely at our wits’ end. You stared fixedly at a single spot and didn’t even react when we turned off the light.
04.03.1961
If we let you roam free, you crawl around the entire apartment. Like a little bear cub. Thump, thump, thump. You scratch your way through every reachable thing; you are very enthusiastic about the stove. You also gladly scratch all along the doors.
You already understand "forbidden!" Or do you just feel it? If you want to do something forbidden, we shout loudly that it's “forbidden!”, and then you leave it alone. In fact, you already know that wires are so taboo that if you head toward them, you glance back from time to time, as if asking what's going on and we are going to shout at you. Or is it allowed this once?
You are grateful for every little smile; if we just look at you, you rejoice, and when we change your diaper! You fidget, move, laugh, shout—your father even lost his temper once.
You really loved playing with buttons. You moved them here and there. You threw them all around. Then all of a sudden it occurred to you that it would be good to eat them too. You didn’t listen, so I slapped your hand, and you started wailing and reaching your hand out toward me. You weren’t really crying—you were just putting on a show.
"In the evening, we always let you out into the room; at those times, you crawl around and around."
20.04.1961
You babble all day long, crawl on all fours, and constantly want to go for a walk, which is quite a hassle because you can’t do it on your own, and I don’t have the time or energy for it. You already have seven teeth, but you still don't know how to use them even now. In the evening, we always let you out into the room; at those times, you crawl around and around. When we sit down to eat, you stand next to the table on all fours, like a little dog, and look up at us with your mouth open. If you don’t get any food when you look up, you start yelling really loudly.
11.09.1961
For two weeks, you stayed next door with your friend Judith while we were enjoying life in the Netherlands. You were very well behaved over there, but since you've been home, life is a madhouse. You recognized us, and were very happy, but since then you are constantly throwing tantrums and whining. You don't eat, but you sleep a lot. You still don't want to walk even now, but to be led around—oh yes. From morning till night. You also like to cuddle, and besides that, you would crawl into every little hole. We were nervous about whether you would recognize us, but you hadn't forgotten us.
28.11.1962
It has been a long time since I wrote. Since then, I have become a mother of two children. Eszter is a screeching little piglet who doesn't even eat properly yet. The boy is sick. Tonsillitis. He lies down, sleeps, doesn't eat, vomits, whines, and is very awestruck that he is "sick" today. Poor little bug. Since then, he has become quite a rascal. The other day I shouted at you to put the biscuits back into the plate from the lid of the wash kettle. You came out, put them back, and then with a "now just be quiet" you retreated back into the room. Another time we scolded you for something, whereupon you put your finger to your eye and announced with a desperate whine: "I am suffering." Then in the afternoon, you didn't want to fall asleep, but I put you to bed anyway. You screeched for a while and then fell silent. Half an hour later, I hear you whining: "what should I do, what should I do." You wanted to come out, but you didn't dare.
27.12.1962
Sometimes the boy lies. He says about something, "I drew this," and from then on he is convinced that it is really so. He crawls under the table, says "I am in Africa, I fed elephants," and then it is so. If anyone warns him that it’s not true, he starts to cry.
But he also has a lie that strikes at his character. He is not allowed to throw things. He threw a box at an other kids head. I beat him severely.
Afterward, I explained to him that it’s not allowed. The result: My dear son sits in the children's room, beats the humming top on the floor, and meanwhile screams: "not allowed Róbert." He got such a slap that he fell against the door. I don’t know, I don’t think he understood what he did, nor do I think the slap was smart. But it is sad nonetheless. True, he told me afterward what he had done, but still.
01.10.1963
We just came back from Holland. The kids are terrible. Now one is crying, now the other, now both of them. The “boy” lies terribly. He denies what he did, blames Eszter or Róbert for what he did. We were completely helpless.
One evening his father beat him so hard that his bottom is still rainbow-colored. Since then, with great difficulty, the truth can be wrung out of him. I hope he won't forget the beating for a long time. It would be terrible if he turned out to be a liar.
"It would be terrible
if he turned out to be a liar."
Over the years, my parents have become strangers to me, and they still are today.
I wish it could be different.
The beginning of a roll of film. Photos I took as a child. Late sixties.
Mother's face puffy and tired she lies in bed day and night a cigarette in her hand half propped up facing me she looks at me and doesn't see me an awkward photo I took as a child the horror of that time catches up with me again mother puffy and tired, she lies there day and night how ugly she was.
Mother whimpers night after night her wailing penetrates through closed doors penetrates through walls when she falls silent, I listen intently into the hoped-for silence of the night until she starts all over again her crying swells, she seems to squeeze it out of herself listen to me don't leave me alone then becomes quieter this dry sobbing mechanically repeating she can no longer.
We all lay awake sometimes each one of us listening to her we didn´t talk to each other we didn´t help her nor each other all of us stayed alone.
The easiest times are the times when she stays in the mental hospital visits there are an annoyance everything is shabby there, I feel watched cramped boredom endured time.
I don't like the house where she killed herself rows and rows of prefabricated concrete parts whitewashed gray gardens separated by wire mesh each house a box in itself firmly locked.
Stupefied her the features puffy a bone structure hung with skin and flesh the breasts limp she took unsteady step to empty herself I look at her in shame and close the door.
You didn't come out of your room any more I didn't notice I was relieved father asks and calls and we enter your room on the floor tilting beer the newspapers yellowed and you dead on your bed smell of stale smoke I don't look at her I look at her secretly clean up wordlessly we tidied up her room I haven´t seen anything father calls the ambulance he doesn’t want to have another look at her the doctor is indignant he shouldn't make a circus exact time of death can no longer be determined because she already has been dead for longer on a stretcher down the wooden stairs and out of the house.
When they sank you in the pit I was afraid that my face would turn into a grin or that I would start laughing strange the priest strange after an embarrassing silence finally someone throws earth om your coffin as is so common and strange the chapel and the funeral procession meaningless the neighbors an old friend of yours you were there a few lumps of earth only the event dissolves we drove home spoke everyday things not a word about you never a word about you we lived together a few more years father sister and I we knew each other and didn't know each other we seemed to have forgotten you and can't get away from you.
Locked me in my room for years I stayed alone with my misery, books to comfort myself watching for hours TV I thought it over and over again and didn't get very far with this I didn't understand why I was so alone didn't talk about you when you were alive neither did I when you were dead and I didn't invite anyone to my place out of shame.
I dream of my mother she is only skin and bones smaller than me, she is beside herself with rage she strikes at me with windmill-like movements helpless her hits I keep her away from me.
Jockay
My sister and I dug mother up and buried her in Hungary.
My mother, on the left, and her slightly younger sister, on the right.
A few years after my mother, her sister also committed suicide.
to be continued