Hungarian Heritage Review, 1988 (17. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1988-01-01 / 1. szám
(Élje ^literature of Hitugarji a child’s sobbing voice suddenly rent the air: “Soldierman, please don’t hurt my mommy! I’ll die if anything happens to my dear mommy!” Ten year old Ilonka, the half-orphaned daughter of István Kadar was crying out her heart in the blackness of the night. The smiles faded from the faces of the resurrected and their immobility seemed to quiver. Something stirred in their ranks. A woman stepped out of the speechless crowd and tearfully beseeched the Reverend Kitay: “Let’s return, Reverend Sir! Let’s return. I beg you in the name of our former good life. Let’s not make murderers of those for whom we lived and suffered.. .whom we loved so dearly during our life. Let’s not disturb the dreams of our children; let’s not burden their hearts with care. Oh, Reverend Sir, dear is the light of the world and sweet the goodness of the earth, but the tears of my little daughter tell me we should return. I can’t rebel against the tears of my dear little child.” The cemetery crowd quivered like a wind-swept grass field. Entreaties of women, children and young people rose like wafted bands of black ribbon. “Let’s return, Reverend Sir! Let’s not pain the hearts of those whom we loved so well.” The Reverend Kitay sighed deeply. With a mighty breath he inhaled the secret goodness of the spring night and said with reluctant acquiescence: “My Brethren! Let us peacefully return to our cemetery beds. Life beckoned, but the living denied us. Let us return. Those who cannot find a place in the hearts of the living are better off in the soil of the cemetery. Let us go back!” He lifted his pale face for a moment and gazed into heaven’s open eyes. Then, as though life once more warmly embraced his heart, a confessional prayer burst from his lips: “Oh, earth; oh, lovely light; oh, bread; oh, child-like laughter!” The cemetery mass slowly turned and like black will-o-the wisps filled the night with long sighs. Only the night and the deepening grayness of the unending road remained. The Makucska cemetery retired behind the hedgerows of the Hungarian Constitution. Strained hearts, muted lips and fear-numbed arms awaited the peep of dawn on the church knoll, hoping that light would reveal the secrets of the night. When the gray-green light of dawn finally convinced their eyes that trouble disappeared, they screamed with exultation and excitedly fired their weapons to prove to themselves that victory and conquest were theirs. The Judge called for old, soiled-white “Csendes,” the horse used to haul lime from the pit to the village. He mounted and proudly filled his conqueror’s chest with morning freshness and loudly proclaimed: “Father Árpád, I did my duty!” The Makucska victory celebration lasted three days. The flaming feeling was enhanced inasmuch as distinction descended on the village like blight on June cucumbers. The Judge was named government Counsellor on Resurrection Prevention. The Bishop sent his autographed photo plus a priestly-poetic recognition of two lines: “ While the church you do guard Resurrection there will be barred. ’ ’ Beautifully engraved testimonials were received by the county’s high sheriff, chief magistrate and magistrate. The village notary was permitted to use the title of Esquire officially. The teacher was endowed with the title of Professor. It was not until the following Sunday that they dared to visit the cemetery. And then only as a group — in a procession — led by the Judge, the good pastor and the village notary, followed by the entire village, according to rank. They sang hymns and waved their banners. They tramped heavily on every inch of cemetery soil. As the procession departed the cemetery, the Judge’s eyes were suddenly attracted to the gold-lettered sign over the gateway: “WE WILL RISE.” “Oh, no,” he exclaimed. “We’ve had enough of that! It’s not feasible to have lean lions entrusted to serve red meat!” The sign was immediately removed and next day replaced by a new one reading: “THE NATIVE SOIL TENDERS ETERNAL REST.” Ever since, German experts, from their high tower atop Mt. Matra, have remained vigilant and careful not to let the Hungarian village resurge! End 28 HUNGARIAN HERITAGE REVIEW JANUARY 1988
