Let's get in the mood for the Holidays with excerpts from the Life in the Barracks! Chapter 9: Home for Christmas - part 4; last part.

Picture credit: http://www.dreamstime.com/royalty-free-stock-photography-winter-landscape-church-image17160397

In this last installment of the chapter Tibor decides to visit his mother's resting place in the columbarium of the local church on Christmas Day. Here, he addresses his mother in a silent monologue. After experiencing the soothing serenity of the church, he decides to pay a visit to a Catholic priest back in Kisliget.

CHAPTER 9 - closing section.

On Christmas morning they woke to a heavy blizzard. The windows squeaked and rustled under the relentless barrage of the howling wind carrying clouds of drifting powdered snow. When Tibor looked outside, he saw the usually noisy titmice huddled under their ruffled feathers in the recess of the window, ignoring the bacon Tibor’s father put out for them every day.

   “I want to go to Mother’s tomb,” Tibor told his father after breakfast. “Do you want to come with me?”
   “No, Tibor. She’ll want you to be there by yourself. You must have things to talk to her about.”
   “Can I take the flowers with me?” Tibor pointed at the centerpiece of their dining table.
   “Sure. They’re fresh. I bought them two days ago. Take water with you in a bottle. They closed down the tap water in the church to prevent the pipes from freezing.”
   When Tibor stepped outside, the cold wind cut into his face. It was 10 o’clock. The morning service was over and no one walked in the streets. The snowflakes transformed into crystal grains and beat his skin like millions of tiny needles. The church, the final resting place of his mother, was nearby. When the swirling snow momentarily calmed between gusts of wind, the steeple emerged from the haze like a looming giant.

   The sound of the heavy door slamming behind him echoed in the empty church. Tibor stamped his boots in the foyer to knock off the snow. He took the spiral steps down to the vaults and quickly found his mother’s resting place. Her picture on the marble plate, with a shy smile from happier days, seemed to brighten up for a moment.
   She knows I’m here!
   In front of the tomb, a fresh bouquet of red carnations stood in a plastic vase, his father’s latest offering.
   Too pretty to throw it away. I’ll just combine the two bouquets.
   He changed the water and arranged the flowers. The carnations blended in well with the blue violets and white snowdrops his father had gotten from the local greenhouse.
   Here. Your favorites. Tibor knelt down on the tiled floor. It was cold and hard on his knees but he owed this much inconvenience to his mother.
   It’s such a small space that you need now, mother. Don’t be claustrophobic in there! I know that your soul can fly out anytime. You probably come back here only when we visit you, right?
   I wonder where the spirit roads take you when you are left alone in this chilling crypt. To our old apartment with Father? To Heaven? To the vast emptiness among the stars? Or to the stars themselves!
   The stars. Are they Hell? Or Purgatory? Oh, what business would you have in those places, anyway?
   I bet you even visit me in Kisliget. Sometimes I feel your presence there. You still care about me, even though you’re gone. You know that lately I’ve hit a rough patch, don’t you? Do you have something to say now that I feel a little lost and less sure of myself?
   The eyes of his mother on the picture seemed to converge on him.
   I remember when you used to complain about a colleague of yours refusing to help lift the heavy crates in the factory storage. You didn’t want to report him. You said he had a bad back problem, so you did all the heavy lifting by yourself. And then, one day he came in complaining of how tired he was because he had sprayed his vineyard the day before. “His back can’t be too bad if he could spray his vineyard,” you said bitterly.
   And yet still you didn’t report him; you just did what you thought had to be done. You had that tillers’ discipline about you. The same that I always saw in my grandmother: the seasons came and the land demanded its dues. There was no room for bargaining.
   You couldn’t imagine failing in your duty either. I frequently heard you saying: “Tibor, sometimes you just have to do what is right. Even if it is hard.” And you did just that.
   Tibor lifted up his right hand and rested his face on it.
   Am I supposed to follow suit? To take it? Take the cynical self-importance of Katona? The soulless self-serving morals of Vida? The frame of mind that seems to justify everything I feel is wrong?
   No, Mother. You were at the bottom of the ranks. You carried heavy boxes under the supervision of a crook. But with your help, I rose. I don’t need to endure others stepping on me. Thanks to you and Father, I’ve amassed what it takes to stand up to the Vida-s, Irmai-s, and Katona-s. I’ve got the smarts and status to do that! I just have to find the way. Yes, that’s it! “Find the best path to follow,” father told me last night. My path is not Vida’s path. I swore to help people, not use them for my own, selfish purpose. If it leads me to confrontation, so be it!--But I sure hope that my plan will work with the drug trial.
   For a moment the shy smile on the picture seemed to have said: “That’s my boy!”
   Tibor rose. With a last glance he surveyed the dark, narrow catacomb. The dizzying array of rectangular marble plates with pictures, many of which were familiar to him, golden scriptures, and flowers in various stages of withering reminded him of a slaughterhouse they had visited during medical school as part of their public health rotation.
   Dozens of clueless cattle had been herded inside the confined space for slaughtering. A man with a semiautomatic rifle, loaded with plastic bullets, moved among the herd and kept placing his weapon between their muzzy eyes and fired in a slow, methodical way. After each shot a cow would fall first on its knees. Then it collapsed on its side still breathing with thick vapor steaming from its nostrils until another man hoisted it on a robotic pulley and a third one shoved a sword-sized knife deep into its chest. Within less than five minutes these unsuspecting, curiously sniffing, and mooing cows hung lifeless, dismembered, heads separated from their bodies, waiting for the tuberculosis survey. And after each fell, it was followed by the next already staring into the barrel of the cold and lifeless gun, surrounded by the peacefully ruminating oblivious herd.
   Why can’t we humans be like cattle: oblivious to and fearless of the fate that awaits us? Aren’t we paying too high a price for our superior intellect? But then, who knows, perhaps Heaven or Hell is waiting for us after all; or ... a parallel universe?
   Tibor climbed back up to the foyer and entered the church. The orderly rows of empty pews somehow reminded him of the perfectly arranged marble plaques in the basement.
   Many of those down there once occupied these nicely lined up pews on Sunday mornings, he thought.
   His eyes seized the sight of the cross on the main wall. The sanctuary glowed with a peculiar milky radiance as the diffuse light of the blizzard filtered through the glazed windows. The smell of frankincense from the morning mass still lingered in the air. An otherworldly sense of peace fell upon Tibor.
   I must find a church in Kisliget, he thought, and with that he stepped outside. The gusty wind nearly tore the heavy door from his hands.

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Let's get in the mood for the Holidays with excerpts from the Life in the Barracks! Chapter 9: Home for Christmas - part 2.

Let's get in the mood for the Holidays with excerpts from the Life in the Barracks! Chapter 9: Home for Christmas - part 1.

Laszlo Hopp: Love must keep them warm!

Last year around Christmas time I published on this site four installments of a chapter from my book "Live in the Barracks. I thought the chapter was appropriate for the season, since it describes Tibor's visit home for Christmas. In this past year I made changes to the book. In fact, the rewrite is still in (slow!!!) progress. In the spirit of the Christmas season, here is again the first of four parts from Tibor's reworked Christmas adventures with his Father.
(The brief introduction is the same as last year's.)

Short of a big advertising budget, I try to promote my book with what I have. I have winter and the Christmas season approaching and I happen to have a long chapter in the Life in the Barracks about Tibor visiting his father for Christmas of 1978. So, I decided to break down this chapter into a few manaegable sections and post them on this blog in the course of the next few weeks. Admittedly, my hope is that a few of those who stumble upon the blog may get inspired to purchase the book: either as a present for a loved one, or to surprise themselves and start reading the story in front of their fire place in the company of a cup of hot chocolate or fine winter liquer.

The chapter starts with Tibor elating about Zsuzsa, who apparently reciprocated his interest - in the previous chapter -. He is also happy because Christmas is getting close and he got permission to visit his father for the Holiday. Christmas has a special importance in Tibor's life: it symbolizes the warmth of his family he grew up with.


Chapter 9 Home for Christmas

The next two weeks flew by for Tibor. He was full of excitement to see his father and his little town with its long main street lined with horse chestnut trees. He wanted to see the river, almost certainly frozen solid this late in the year, and waiting to impress him with loud metallic crackles as the ice sheet expanded with the daytime warming.

     The anticipation of going home was further enhanced by his elation over Zsuzsa. He knew it had just started, but it started so well! With the help of his vivid imagination and dreamy soul, Tibor felt Zsuzsa’s presence everywhere. When he made the short walk through the park to the infirmary, he held Zsuzsa’s hand in her oversized mitten. When Katona vexed him, he told Zsuzsa, You see what assholes I have to deal with? Or, toward the end of an exhausting afternoon clinic that stretched well into the early evening, he heard her soothing voice, as if she were sending encouraging subliminal messages to him.

     He wanted to gush out his happiness to Keri but decided to hold himself back. He had frequently fallen into the trap of his own exuberance over new relationships. He would let his guard down and reveal his naked, undisguised feelings prematurely. He was convinced that his last relationship ended, painfully as it did, partly because of his torrential outpouring of emotions that overwhelmed his girlfriend. Although he knew he couldn’t change his natural instincts, he was determined to control how he revealed his inside fire. But when night came, nobody could interfere with his sigh before he’d fall asleep: One of those stars above the Owl’s Nest must have pitied me.

     Unfortunately, the holiday season was very busy in Kisliget and Zsuzsa had to put in a lot of overtime at the café. For his part, Tibor had to finish his end-of-the-year reports in the infirmary before his Christmas furlough. They were both so busy that it wasn’t until a few days before his leaving for the furlough that Tibor could manage to visit the café. Zsuzsa smiled and waved when she noticed him. He asked for a chicken sandwich with cucumber, a beer, a coffee, and a creamy French pastry.

“Whoa, you’re going all out tonight, aren’t you?” Zsuzsa said. She came to his table more than usual and this kept Tibor’s heart pleasantly warm. He noticed that their usual cheerful bantering during Zsuzsa’s brief breaks took up a new air of amicability.

     When Tibor was ready to pay, Zsuzsa put a thin worn book on the table along with the bill. The book contained two novellas by Stephan Zweig: The Royal Game and Amok.

     “This will be good reading for you on the train.” she said. “I’ve been carrying this book since the dance, but you never came.”

     “Not because of lack of wanting. You know how bureaucracy works, like an unwanted pregnancy: as the delivery day approaches, the burden one carries grows exponentially.”

     “The end of year rush?” Zsuzsa said, smiling. “Didn’t you say that you have an administrator to do that for you?”

     “Yes, Marosi, of course. But he gets overwhelmed very easily. He’s been hopelessly tangled up in the intrigues of those year-round statistics, accounts, and various registry statements the military is full with.

Thanks for remembering the book, though!” Tibor said and squeezed Zsuzsa’s hand as he handed her the payment.

When Zsuzsa saw the tip, she made a playful grimace and scolded him. “You’re a conscript now, not a doctor. Don’t be such a show-off!”

     Tibor shrugged his shoulder.

     Zsuzsa sneaked in brief kisses on his cheeks and whispered, “Enjoy your trip and be a good boy! I’ll see you in the New Year.”

     “In the New Year?” Tibor exclaimed. “We can’t spend New Year’s Eve together?”

     “Sorry, but no.” Zsuzsa said, her face lengthening like a child ready to burst into tears. “We are going to visit my uncle, who is turning 50 on New Year’s Eve. It’s a big family event. No way out.”

     “Where does he live?”

     “Budapest.”

     “Oh!” Tibor sighed. “You’ll see the city at its best. How I envy you! The lights of the bridges, the splendor of the king’s castle, the jingle of the trams, fireworks at midnight ... and all those carefree, happy people flooding the streets ready for the holidays.”

     “Shh!” Zsuzsa locked her lips with her finger. “I don’t want to hear complaints. You will be at home with your family. What more can you ask for?”

     “True. What more?”

     With a smile and a hug they parted for the rest of the Old Year.

 ***

     A few days later, Tibor sat on the train heading home. Despite the approaching holidays, he was the only passenger in the compartment. When the conductor came to turn on the electricity, only one of the three lights flickered to life. Tibor didn’t mind. Zweig’s book was tucked in his luggage for his Christmas reading, and the manuscripts that he planned to work on during the trip lay untouched on the seat next to him. His head was filled with thoughts and memories. Words and faces jumped out unpredictably from hidden corners of his subconscious. Scenes from the past two months played out on richly embellished stages set inside his mind. His thoughts moved back and forth in time as if he were turning pages of a playbill with slow, aimless motion. In this imaginary playbill Vida was the leading man with the strongest performance during their dinner with Tibor. In fact, Tibor realized that since that night, Vida was not only the leading man but he also became the director of Tibor’s role on the stage of Kisliget. How much can he follow the director’s instructions? When does he have to start doubting Vida’s coaching? Does he, Tibor, have enough flair to remain his own director in a military stage play so odd to him? Can he flaunt himself as the naïve, altruistic doctor wanting nothing but the best of his patients while passing sentence on Vida for his unprofessional selfish greed?

            The leading lady on that playbill was a far more agreeable character. Tibor’s heart thumped with excitement when Zsuzsa came to his mind. How is she going to spend the holidays? With whom? Who is she going to dance with on New Year’s Eve? Will their burgeoning relationship be put to test with the nearly two week separation?

Until nightfall, Tibor stared at the passing landscape: featureless, yet somehow fascinating for him as it spread out to the horizon under the thick white cover. His body rocked with the rhythm of the train. Fighting to stay awake, eyes half-closed, he stubbornly scanned the growing darkness outside. His breathing deepened as he sank into the twilight between sleep and consciousness. The monotonous clicking of the train’s wheels and the darkness that now took over the faint lights of dusk finally overcame his pensive thoughts, the rush of memories and childlike excitement over the train ride home. He drifted off into a dream.

     He saw his younger self running alongside a train in the snow. Children pulled their sleds with him and yelled something at him. He waved back but didn’t stop running, trying to stay alongside one of the cars. He wanted to see the people behind the bright windows. They looked warm and comfortable and Tibor was delighted to observe their silent gestures and facial expressions. The scene reminded him of a bizarre comical pantomime act. He wanted to see how their faces changed during the animated discussion. He felt an insatiable curiosity to know who would get the slices of an orange that a woman in the compartment was peeling. But he could not keep up. The train passed him and in a blink of an eye only the two fading lights of the last car winked back at him mockingly from the distance.

     Next in the dream, his mother showed up, sitting on a stool. She saw him on the verge of crying in frustration over the disappearing train and gestured for him to sit on her lap. They were transported to their old kitchen, and the two of them sat and stared out the window. Tibor knew they were waiting for the angels to bring the Christmas tree on that cloudless winter night. His father was in the living room, opening the windows so that the angels could get in. Tibor curled up in his mother’s lap and waited for the jingle that heralded the arrival of the tree with the presents.

His mother pointed at the star-covered black sky. “Do you see that angel there? She’s coming this way!”

Tibor strained his eyes. First, he didn’t see it. But then, finally he noticed the angel. There she was, riding on a bright streak of light. No doubt that’s her star. The wings of the angel were tightly closed next to her body and her long hair streamed behind her. Tibor couldn’t make out her halo though. With the tree and all those presents she can’t fly with her own wings. That’s why she’s using her star.

     With grinding metallic sound the train pulled in the empty station and with a brief judder it came to a halt. Tibor woke and shook his head. He almost missed his stop.

This old memory with his mother on Christmas Eve came back in many of his dreams. Tibor always wondered whether he’d seen a comet or Venus had been visible on that long ago early Christmas night, giving him the vision of the angel with her star.

     In a hurry, Tibor grabbed his luggage and left the warm compartment. As he descended on the icy steps, nippy wind cut into his face. Only a few other people got off the train. Nobody that Tibor knew. He stood there, on the open platform and breathed in the familial air. The wind carried the fragrances from the empty fields on one side of the station, mixed with the distinctive leathery discharge from the shoe factory. If one paid close attention, a delicate scent of the nearby river could also be detected.

Tibor waited until the train left. He wanted to see the stationmaster come out from the small office in his night-blue colored uniform and trapper’s hat to raise the crossing gate by the old fashioned mechanism. Since a child, Tibor liked to listen to the clicking and clacking of the old gate as it rose while the stationmaster turned the rusty wheel. Once done, clapping his hands and shivering with cold the stationmaster disappeared in his office. Tibor started off the mile-long walk home all alone. He could not notify his father of the arrival time. As he tried to keep balance on the unplowed narrow walkway, Tibor imagined his father’s beaming face at the open door. I’ll be an expected surprise tonight, he chuckled.

     The footpath from the vacant train station to his home passed by the factory. The pride of the small town, the largest shoe factory in the country, worked in three shifts and this was the last shift before the holidays. The quiet humming of various assembly-line machines followed Tibor as he walked along in the cracking snow. Behind the factory’s brick fence one of the larger warehouses sore imposingly over the dark sky. Its small, bright windows resembled holes poked in black fabric, like the stars on the night with Zsuzsa at the ruins in Kisliget. Only there were no recognizable constellations. On the other side of the walkway ran the highway. The normally busy thoroughfare was eerily deserted now, as the latest snowfall leveled it with the empty fields alongside. Tibor walked listening to the crunchy snow under his heavy steps. In a distance, the lights of the town flickered invitingly. He knew that one tiny bright point among those lights was the window of their old apartment and that behind that window his father was busy preparing dinner. Tibor quickened his pace.

     The familiar sound of their doorbell echoed in the stairway as he pushed the button next to his father’s nameplate. Almost immediately, as if he were waiting for this sound behind the door, his joyful father opened the door. Tibor gave him a warm hug.

     “Good to be home, Father!”

     “I figured you’d take this train,” his father said with a slight break in his voice. “Come in! I have dinner ready for us! But first let me see you in uniform, Mr. Second Lieutenant!”

     Tibor had to leave the base in his uniform and his father found great pride in seeing him in the masquerade, as Tibor thought of it, of a junior officer.

Toward the very end of World War Two, his father had been enlisted to serve as a sort of “buffer” between the retreating German and advancing Russian troops. With tongue-in-cheek humor they called themselves the “bullet catchers.” The whole squad was captured and his father ended up spending two years in a Russian coalmine as a POW. Tibor was always surprised that after the painful years of war and captivity, his father could still show any enthusiasm at all for the military. Tibor had concluded a long time ago that it had to be the combination of nostalgia for youth and the healing power of time.

     “Oh, enough of this, father. Let me change into decent civilian clothes!”

  

WILL CONTINUE!

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