By Cecil Zakariás
We both started running as the October rain began to
fall. I was trying not to get my white socks too dirty while skipping over
puddles. We were out of breath but managed to catch the bus home. Maria looked
at me frowning so I knew I didn’t look neat. I started to set my blouse and the
dark skirt right, which we had to wear to school on national holidays.
Today we were remembering the victims of the Hungarian
Revolution in 1956. At fourteen we didn’t understand all that much of it, but
on such occasions I always felt uncomfortable about wearing an elegant skirt
and patent shoes which were clopping in the corridor during recess.
Maria said I should tidy up my hair before I go to my
grandparents for lunch. I tried to make my hair look neat while simultaneously
balancing on the bus. I hoped the rain would stop by the time I had to get off.
When I arrived, my grandfather
was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for his favourite radio programme. My
grandmother was warming the potato stew on the stove for me. The cutlery and my
favourite plate were laid there in front of me with great care. I was staring at
my reflection in the spoon and after a bit of hesitation I asked, “Grandpa,
where were you when the Revolution happened?”
For a second it seemed as if
everything had gone silent, I only heard the sputtering from the gas stove.
He looked at me surprised and
turned the radio down.
“Well, as soon as I heard the
news, I decided immediately to travel home to my parents…”
Whenever we hear stories about wars and revolutions, we want to hear
stories about heroes who died for us. Luckily, reality is usually more complex
than that. What about family birthdays, cheerful laughs, or napping under your
favourite tree on a lazy summer afternoon and all the experiences you would
miss out on? What about peaceful lives, being surrounded by loved ones? What
about having a small garden you can care for, just enough to grow the fruits
and vegetables you have always wanted, no matter what they call the land that nurtures
your flowers?
He told me when he saw the devastation in his village after the Second
World War as a child, he never believed that he would still have the
possibility to enjoy happy and rich lunches, especially with his own grandchildren
later on. He told me that he considered his life would end again when he was
taken into prison for a false accusation after the Revolution.
I had never known about this prior to that afternoon when I was there
eating my grandmother’s potato stew in my uncomfortable school uniform. But despite
the stories from the past, this was never how I remembered him.
For me—for us—he had always been the one with white hair trying to teach me
how to ride the bicycle, running after me when I was going too fast and almost
fell, who was sitting for hours at his typewriter working as a translator during
retirement, who knew everything about classical music, or the one who was walking
around in his well-tended garden and smiled whenever we entered.
Because there are some who stayed here for us.
