The Red Bicycle

Seven year old Janos was asked by his elderly grandmother during a lull in attacks, to surface to the streets and go find whatever he could...food was of high importance and after the barrage of bombings that rocked their shared apartment bunker in Pest, he put on his grandmother's shoes and whatever warm clothes they had to go searching, it was winter and the invasion was official.

Dad used to tell us that Pest, was considered the more humble side of Budapest, and included a huge Jewish population that inhabited that part of town along with a smaller group of Roman Catholics. It didn't bear much significance as in his view, people coexisted in a normal manner. Little did he know what that was about to mean for his town, his neighbors, his friends and many other innocent people. It was much of what he witnessed there that would shape the rest of his life.

There were many beautiful things about the city that were enjoyed by rich and poor alike. Before the war, my dad Janos could walk over or take a street car to the opera house and listen under the stars for free by just sitting outside. He had great freedom as a young boy. It's hard for me to imagine allowing my son at that age to wander around in that manner. Life was different.

He had a father that worked hard as a craftsman that worked as a wood artisan and made a mark with the Basilicas and local churches with his work. When my dad Janos and his cousin Joska where young boys, they would go searching to find my grandfather when payday came around and could easily locate him at the local pub. The owner always had a cup of beer foam for the boys to keep them calm...my great-grandmother was always worried that my grandfather would drink his money away. A good man otherwise who my father adored and always honored till dying day but had his vices.  My dad used to say it was always nice see his father when he could and had fond memories of that delicious foam that made them feel sleepy.

My great grandmother (whose name escapes me and is part of the reason why I am doing the genealogy search) was loving, strict, and hardworking. She was my father's main guardian and caregiver from the day he was abandoned by his own mother, literally left on a potato sack, on my great-grandmother's door step. Hard to believe that this was actually true to life and not out a fairytale, but it did happen. My great- grandmother took my father and gave him a good Roman Catholic upbringing and had him helping out and working from about age 5. She did her best to provide the stability he needed since his father was not too available. She had since retired as a former cook for the Austro-Hungarian nobility and used her skills as a seamstress to make ends meet. She was up in age and not so physically strong, so little Janos or Janchika as she would affectionately call him had to help out for their survival.

So, on this particular day, Janchika surfaces to the street level and begins to look around. He sees many things that he has begun to desensitize to: dead bodies, dying horses, parachutes, pieces of things he cannot allow himself to re-assemble in his mind as they could form a whole person. He begins to notice other people climbing out of the safety of their basements when he notices a sudden and frenzied rush to the stores as people began to loot for their survival. Janchika, being age 7, for a quick second, forgets his responsibilities to find food and other necessities. He joins the mob and runs to the department store. He remembers something he has long adored.  He is lucky to make it amidst all the desperate grabbing by neighbors, strangers pushing their way thru take what they could get.

Finally, there is a break in the crowd and my father has a clear shot of an item he had long admired thru the store window holiday display. He would see this beautiful little object and imagine himself riding on it to the park, opera house, school,  over the bridges, to church. Suddenly, he is acutely aware of the discomfort in his feet wearing his grandmother's shoes that are about twice his size and stuffed with newspaper. Oh how that that little shiny red bicycle could whisk him away and was at last going to be his! All this within reach, at last a bit of happiness amidst all the misery. Triumphantly and swiftly he picks up the bike and begins to easily wheel it away to ride home.

Then a strange silence. Where was everyone? Where is all the pushing and shoving?

The desperate mob had dispersed and virtually disappeared and a gripping fear came over him.

There standing before him was an  SS soldier  blocking his way. Yelling at my seven year old dad in German expletives he then viciously proceeded ripped the bicycle away from him after teaching him a lesson he wouldn't be allowed to forget. He is left to survive but only after a horribly broken nose from the butt of a gun.

My dad's eyes still welled up every time he would tell that story. He would go on to tell us that he could not go home to his grandmother empty handed, even though his nose was bleeding profusely and he was running for his life in fear. He had to stop and scavenge whatever he could find. His feet throbbed, his head hurt, and he had to put away whatever hurt feelings he had about the coveted bike. He took parachute material and some horsemeat from the street and brought them to their temporary home in the basement to his horrified grandmother. He was gone so long, she thought he died out there. She took the meat, parachute material and then went to work doing whatever she could to stop the bleeding. Once she stabilized him, she went to work on preparing the meat and then sewing some clothing out of the parachutes. Though their survival was not guaranteed, they had tonight, each other and food. Tomorrow was another day.