Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-12-04 / 46. szám
Thursday, Dec. 4. 1986. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ 9. I was the only boy in the place. From these sage travel agents I learned that another crack train heading east to New York would pull out of Indy about three for a non-stop run to Dayton. I planned to be on that fast train. It had stopped snowing, was near zero, but the wind had died down. With no water stop, the ride back on the blind was bitter cold but bearable, if you consider half- frozen as bearable. The big difference from the trip to Indy was no snow and thankfully, no wind. An arctic cold with no chill factor is more tolerable when riding the blind. No matter where you go, it is always good to be returning home. Reviewing the past twenty-two hours, as we sped past frozen Indiana corn fields, I decided it was not a bad Christmas. Except for the near-freezing and the Salvation Army dinner. Every detail of that meal is remembered fifty-three years later. Out of respect and gratitude to the Salvation Army let's just say it would not win a Michelin star. The crack flyer was breaking speed records in its race east. The outskirts of Dayton whizzed by, but I spotted Pop's house as we were slowing down for the stop. After carefully washing up in the Union Station, I walked the two miles home in record time. My brother-in-law Frank opened the door at my soft knocking. "Hurry in, Johnny, it's cold as hell out there." Smiling, he added, "You're just in time for supper, but if you want to clean up we'll wait for you." "Is there time for a bath?" "Sure, take your time, we'll hold up supper for you." Frank helped me take off my sheepskin coat and slapped me on the back. As I rushed two steps at a time up to my room, Frank yelled, "Sure, take your time, but don't take too long or the wine will be all gone." Even in the hot bathtub I could still feel cold in my bones from the rides on the blinds. Yet, for two more years, off and on, I rode the rails thousands of miles, just like hundreds of thousands of American men, women, children and babies, who were victims of the great depression. There was a lot of Christmas spirit in box cars, with help to families who were forced to travel this way, searching for jobs, meals or a place to sleep during those bitter years. Coming down to the kitchen, squeaky clean and in fresh clothes, I picked up the baby and bounced him on my knee with a Hungarian lullabye. My sister Pauline and her husband, Frank, were studying me with smiles on their faces. The baby chuckled and laughed. No one said a word for some time. Breaking the silence, as he poured a large glass of wine from the jug I had started on twenty-three hours earlier, Frank said: "Merry Christmas, Johnny! It's good to have you home!" We clicked glasses and as I sipped the wine I felt no more cold. Only a warm glow. "We're glad you got back in time for supper. We know you love chicken paprikas," Frank said, putting down his glass. I can still see and smell the strudels and other delicious Hungarian foods which filled the kitchen counters and stove. "Even the baby missed you. Where have you been?" my sister asked. I turned to Frank and said, "Thanks for the wine, old buddy," ignoring Pauline's question for the moment. "Where were you?" she repeated. "We were worried about you because of the blizzard!" I took another sip of wine, smiled at both of them and said, "Oh, just out." JAILED FOR WORKING "Are you going to Mass tomorrow morning?" Pop asked. "I can't, Pop. I tore a gash in my only pants and Aunt Mary can't sew it till next week." With a decent pair of paints I would have gone to church and avoided a serious crime against the Federal Government. Only sixteen years old, I had a horrible experience which may have been the beginning of a healthy disrespect for government bureaucracy. The seeds of a rebellion against Congress and unfair Federal Law must have been planted that Sunday morning when I missed Mass. That Sunday afternoon the gang was shooting the bull on the steps of our store which was in front of our home, and vacant to business for years. My cousins Mike and Louie drove up and greeted the boys at the West Side's most popular hangout. "We got two jobs, while the rest of you bums are still unemployed," Mike yelled. "Cut out the bullshit, what happened?" I asked. With jibes for the less fortunate, Louie explained. "After Mass, Father Voynich announced that any man needing work should go to a certain office downtown and sign up for WPA." "On a Sunday?" someone asked. "Yep. Holy Name, our little Hungarian Catholic Church has political connections," Louie added. A well-placed lawyer and Irish-American politician working for the ethnic votes, was able to get a supply of applications for WPA jobs. Those were federally funded Works Progress Administration positions, so he had connections in the federal bureaucracy. Both Mike and Louie had good General Motors factory jobs but were the only young men at church with a car. They loaded up unemployed friends and all of them, including my cousins, signed up for WPA jobs, thanks to the politician. This was not exactly proper, since regulations required that unemployed had to be on city work relief first to qualify for paid WPA jobs. Of course, government bureaucrats have ways to bend rules, especially for patronage reasons. "You already have a good job, Louie. Give me your card. You know that no one is working at our house. I'll take the blame for any problems," I said. "Okay, as long as you use my name and let me sign your paychecks." Next morning and for some months, I answered the roll call on this WPA project to "Louis Harakay." The work was tough. The project was to break down culverts on county roads, which were two-lane but narrowed down to one for the culvert crossings. Wider concrete culverts were then built. My job was to knock down the old walls with a heavy sledge hammer and steel wedges. My hands were full of blisters before lunch break. Pop had fixed me his standard factory lunch. Two pork chop sandwiches on Hungarian rye bread, with three fresh hot peppers. We never ate pickles. In summer it was fresh hot peppers and in winter we had the canned variety. We never knew beef in our house. Years later I learned that Hungarians prefer pork and chicken. Beef was for the poor, like the gypsies. When Pop packed my lunch early that morning I urged him to stop at one big sandwich. The sledge hammer increased my appetite and I ate it all. "Johnny, you're getting skinny as Mrs. Gedro. If you lose weight, instead of gaining, you'll never get in the army," Pop said. "It's not the hard work, that's getting me down. It's the bullshit stories from the older men." After two months on the job, I stopped going to Aunt Mary's to have Louie endorse his (my) check. Some weeks I waited for hours and had to come back the next day to catch Louie, who had a variety of afterwork hobbies. This was disappointing because my driver wanted his three dollars day after payday. I wanted to give Pop ten dollars for household expenses, since he was recently caught in the depression layoffs. My two dollar allowance could wait, and I saved much of it, except to buy gloves and some work clothes. I had no energy left to take a sweet thing to the movies. Fifteen bucks went a long way in the thirties, and we were eating high off the hog. Waiting at Neni's, short for aunt in Hungarian, was a pleasure if the hours were not too long. They had a comfortable brick cottage, but lived most of the time in their furnished basement. The living room, furniture covered with white sheets, was reserved for weddings, funerals, Christmas, the priest and other dignitaries. They cooked, ate, slept behind curtains and entertained relatives and neighbors in the basement. It was warm in winter and cool in summer. That's where I sampled their best sausages and Neni's delicious baked goods. And where I waited to have my clothing mended, or tried on my cousins' hand-me-downs. When Louie never showed up and I wanted to give Pop his money, I signed Louis Harakay to the back of the check and cashed it • at Pustoy's grocery store. From then on 1 did the same as long as the job lasted. Concrete busting petered out a few months later and I was back to caddying on the city golf course or hustling for odd jobs. There was another uneventful trip out West as a non-paying guest of the railroads. That elusive good job in the wheat fields or the orchards never materialized. I washed a lot of dishes in grubby restaurants for food and a few dollars to get home. Traveling alone was no fun and this was my worst trip on the rails. Pop greeted me like the prodigal son and gave me a big bear hug on my return home. I was happy too. About a week home and seven or eight months after working on the WPA job, in cousin Louie's name, there was a loud knock on the door one night about nine o'clock. A man in a dark suit, wearing a snap- brim hat, flashed a card when I opened the door. Just like the G-Man in the nickle movies on Saturday afternoons. He said he was a federal agent of some bureaucracy I never heard of. "I have a warrant for your arrest on charges of forgery and defrauding the government." He made it sound like murder or spying. Pop was asleep, so I asked the Federal Agent to wait quietly while I left Pop a note. Pop was wise despite his lack of lit- -eracy. Peasants never saw a schoolroom in Transylvania, Hungary. The message would get to one of my sisters, who lived elsewhere. (To be continued)
