Coonskin Czardas
by David Rosenberg
Many things had to happen just right for my parents to provide the world with two children. I'm not talking about the chance happening between a woman and a man and the subsequent miracle that occurs from the romantic coupling of two consenting adults. I'm talking about big picture items like my mom daring leaving her home in Knoxville, Tennessee, for the big city of Cleveland, Ohio and my father fleeing from Hungary because he miraculously had an American citizenship because my grandfather lived in the United States for a brief time. This permitted my father to leave Hungary just before the extermination madness in the late 1930s.
Picture how difficult it was for these two people to communicate. Although my father spoke five languages, he knew only a few words of English and I'm sure my mother's southern accent threw a curveball in his ability to learn the language of his new homeland. With all these hurdles and difficulties cast aside some common bond existed, they married and I was born in 1946 and my sister, Betty was born in 1951. It was a unique household to be sure.
There was a lot my father would never talk about, such as the loss of his parents, sister, and former obstinate wife, who refused to leave Hungary, even though the dangers were more evident everyday. My father loved America enough to join the Army to help defeat Hitler and his band of lunatics that dominated Europe in those days. Illness forced him out of the Army minus one kidney, and he found work in a defense plant where he met the pretty woman who became my mother. She was a riveter, while he was a welder, and together they built B-29s and a family.
Years later, when I was almost ten, my father's homesickness for his native country surfaced. I remember the family going out to the movies. In those days, there was a cartoon, a newsreel, and often a double feature--good value for a seventy-five cent adult ticket and twenty-five cent child's ticket. One of the stories on the newsreel showed Hungarian freedom fighters attacking Soviet tanks in Budapest as the proud and rebellious populace tried to regain their freedom and independence. President Eisenhower appeared on the screen and proclaimed to the world that the United States could not support any country borne out of violence. My father took it personally and stood up in the middle of the theater and shouted at the projected Eisenhower image, "that was how this country was borne." He was right of course, but also wrong because the President and the country were scared of the Soviets at that time. He left the auditorium to vent his anger and returned after a few minutes. As a child, you don't realize that his Jekyll and Hyde personality, his vast temper, and his romantic nature are not present in all male parents. As a result, surviving meant loving him and fearing him at the same time.
It took more years on the planet for me to understand the sadness I often saw in his eyes, but I knew his passion for Hungary was sincere, repressed, and deep-seated. He filled the house with classical music and flowers, and we ate fresh fruits and vegetables. Years later, when I visited Budapest, I knew these were common Hungarian attributes and existed in our home to make a little Hungary in our small East Cleveland apartment.
Now I'm not surprised when the day came that my mother yanked me away from the daily neighborhood baseball wars to scrape the dirt off so that I matched my sister in cleanliness for a special event. Bathed, inspected, rejected, and bathed again I prepared for the surprise and dressed in a freshly ironed shirt and dress pants that weren't shiny at the knees.
Because our family didn't have a car, on rare occasions we traveled by cab. Soon one came and tooted its horn in front of our building. Feeling special, I waved to my dirty-faced pals as we drove away headed to an unknown and distant section of town. A thirty-minute taxicab ride was an extravagance for a factory worker in the mid-fifties. When we arrived, I noticed the shop windows displayed signs in English and some unknown cryptic language that I deduced was Hungarian. The driver stopped in front of a large restaurant and we piled out of the car. A pleasant and unique fragrance met us at the door and moments later, we followed a waiter to our table.
Since this happened fifty years ago when I was ten and my sister was five, I don't remember much of the restaurant decor or service, but I do know that it must have been good, because my father's temper remained in remission. I remember him speaking that strange language with several restaurant employees. Here he felt like a king and no doubt, the Hungarian conversations improved the cuisine in quantity if not in quality. I noticed the glow on his face as the waiter opened a bottle of Egri Bikaver (translated as 'Bull's Blood' a blended red Hungarian wine). Again, I really don't remember precisely what I had for dinner, but for those who have never had Hungarian food I'll tell you it is generally delicious and heavy. Typically, Hungarian restaurants prepare food such as toltott kaposzta (stuffed cabbage) and paprikas csirke (paprika chicken in a green and red pepper cream sauce) served with potatoes or dumplings. Pushing a dessert down the hatch on top of these main courses felt like stuffing an anvil on top of an elephant, but no child could resist a slice of Dobostorta (a seven-layer torte with light chocolate between the layers, dark chocolate on the outside, glazed with caramel and topped with a candied cherry). After a meal like this, you needed to do one of two things: Take a four-hour nap or burn off the consumed calories by cutting a cord of firewood with a dull axe.
When my parents finished the last sip of their coffee, my father paid the equally hefty bill without the slightest complaint. We trundled our way to the front door and back to the sidewalk. I thought we would soon jump back in a taxicab and return home, but what did I know of the neighborhood or the true romantic nature of an impassioned Hungarian. Across the street, there was a neighborhood tavern and I could hear the strange music that came from within. The music tickled my father's soul and sensibility and we dodged a few cars to cross the street and entered the tavern that rarely had children cross its threshold. After a little negotiation, we sat at one of the tavern's small square tables on bentwood saloon chairs. I noticed a large bar in one corner that kept the patrons separated from rows of liquor bottles. Several large ceiling fans labored endlessly to homogenize the air with the fumes from others who enjoyed smoking while consuming their alcoholic drinks.
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About twenty feet away from our table on a platform raised a foot above a small dance floor, six musicians cranked out strange melodies. For those who are unfamiliar with Hungarian style music, realize that Hungarians feel cheated when blank spaces separate musical notes. As a result, composers of this music place as many quick notes as they possibly can in each measure and the ear barely resets from one tone before the next arrives. My father told us that they were playing a type of music called a czardas that is also the national dance of Hungary.
The musicians dressed in flashy multicolored gypsy-style clothing and they labored in the production of this music. The violinist's bow moved at sonic speed across his instrument's four strings, but the violinist was a shirker, an orchestral slug in music production compared to the cymbolum player.
If you've never heard of a cymbolum, I'm not surprised. The cymbolum is the great-grandfather of the American hammer dulcimer. It is a set of various length wire strings, tuned to perfection and set in an ornate wooden case. The musician strikes the individual strings with small mallets (called shoes) perched on the end of sticks. If anything on planet earth approaches the speed of light, it has to be cymbolum mallets in the hands of a Hungarian musician. The musician, playing this instrument at lightning speed, causes the mallets move so fast they became a mesmerizing blur to the eye.
After several melodies, containing several trillion notes each, a male singer appeared and several couples danced to a slow romantic song. The singer looked in our direction and a smile appeared in his eyes. If that night, my father became the self-appointed king of Buckeye Avenue in the old Hungarian neighborhood, the locals instantly elevated little Betty to princess status. Betty oblivious to her effect on others, sat there awestruck by the entire experience sipping her Shirley Temple. After the singer completed his song, he pulled the microphone from its stand. My sister in her frilly dress, with two little ponytails jutting from the back of her head, and her dark brown eyes with long eyelashes enchanted the singer. Suddenly, he walked toward our table.
My parents sat noticeably lower in their seats, not knowing what was about to happen. (I've admitted to failing memory in parts of this story, but if I live to be nine hundred and sixty nine years old, the lifespan of Methuselah, I will never forget the dialogue or the event that followed.)
Bending low with the microphone hidden, the singer asked my sister, "Sweetheart, do you like the music?"
My sister nodded and whispered, "Yes."
"You'll have to speak a little louder, I don't hear so well."
"Yes," she repeated, this time louder.
"The boys and I would like to play a song for you. Is there something that you would like to hear?"
She sat there thinking while there were a few titters and giggles from other tavern patrons as she captivated them with her natural charm and innocence.
"Just pick a song that you like," the singer said to encourage her to name a song.
"Davy Crockett," she said proudly, creating overt laughter from all those in the tavern.
"I'm not sure the boys know this tune. Maybe, if you could sing it for us, you could teach us the song and we could play it for you."
My parents wished they could hide under the table, while Betty sang Davy Crockett a cappella batting her long eyelashes until the musicians accompanied her with a few notes. While her career as a Hungarian nightclub singer didn't last very long, those that attended that evening will never forget the night they heard the Coonskin Czardas and the little girl whose sweetness touched them all.
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Often I return to the Cleveland area to visit my mother. Once, I drove to Buckeye Avenue and the old neighborhood. Alas, things change--the Hungarian neighborhood, restaurant, and tavern exist no more, and by telling my heart's story, I've kept alive my fondest recollection of my sister who died several years ago. |
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David Rosenberg
Author of political and phsycologocal thrillers like "No Shortage of Evil"
David's website: DRosenbergBooks.com is engaging and interesting.
Thanks David for the story... J.
Wolf
