Magyar Egyház, 1991 (70. évfolyam, 1-6. szám)
1991-11-01 / 6. szám
8. oldal MAGYAR EGYHÁZ Little Joe was put into a room, intravenous hooked up. The nurse let Lukas sit at the bedside. “Watch him and let me know when he wakes up.” The other bed in the room was empty. They were alone. Lukas collected the few English words he knew. He bent closer to Little Joe: “Little Joe, hear me? Listen. Take it easy, Little Joe. You will be good. Kick ball again as new boy. My brother. Be good. Don’t leave me, Little Joe, Brother . . While he mumbled the words Lukas was intensely watching if the boy would hear him. But the child was just lying there, eyes closed, motionless. Yet, his face was calm, his breathing quiet. At last Lukas stopped talking. He lightly touched the boy’s hand so as to have some physical contact. The subconscious will to have his strength and his desire to have the child live flow over through his touch. “He must live,” Lukas thought. Because Little Joe was his only brother on this whole wide lonely earth. He had no one, no home, no country, nothing. A small suitcase would swallow up all his belongings. He was the loneliest twenty year old man in the world. Lukas had been in this country for only a few weeks. In the Italian camp he was classified a refugee which made it possible to gain entry into the United States. It happened like a whirlwind. Up to some six months ago he worked in the farm-collective of his native village in Hungary. His mother was a widow and as far as Lukas remembered it had always been crowded in the house — mostly older people, aunts, uncles, grandparents, then also a lot of children whose parents were working in the city. He was the only young man and in the family everybody scolded and ridiculed him for not joining the rest of the young people in the well paying jobs in the city’s chemical plant. He said a thousand times he didn’t want to go. He loved the good-smelling earth and the good-smelling hay, the warmth of the cows and of the horses, the clean snow and the dogs barking in the quiet night and the birds’ chirping waking him up at dawn. He didn’t care what the others were saying about him that he was lifeless and stupid. Lifeless? He got more achievement points than anybody in the collective. Stupid? What’s so smart about those guys and girls working in the city plant? Getting drunk and swapping girlfriends and boyfriends every other day and fighting and throwing away all that money? There were no young people his age in the village and it was hard to be lonely — one cannot talk all the time with the old folks or play with little kids, but — well — you cannot have everything. Then, one day, his mother announced that she would get married and Lukas’ bed would be needed. He must get out and in the city. Lukas was shook up. He never felt too much love coming from his mother rather outbursts of disappointment, ‘Why don’t you want to be something.. . Do you want to stay here as a peasant? ...’, but he never dreamed of being thrown out from the house. Lukas didn’t say a word. He packed his bag ,from the top of the main girder in the barn he took his saved forints and didn’t even go back into the house, he left through the rear garden-gate. He didn’t stop in the city either but bought himself a ticket to Szeged, walked south to the Yugoslav border. It was a new-moon spring night and he crossed it without being noticed by anyone. The people on the other side were also Hungarians — this was the Bácska ■— and they were nice to him. “But you can’t stay here in the border zone. Where are you headed for?” “America.” Lukas though he was saying something big but the people were not surprised. He was given expert advice how to get to Opatija, the crossing place to Italy, how to change money, where to buy food, and what to say to the Italian police in order to obtain asylum. All went smoothly until the interrogation at the Italian police station. Was he really a refugee? How can he tell all his frustration? Was he persecuted politically? Did the Hungarian secret police pick him up at night? Did he commit any act of sabotage? Did he speak out against the government? No. No. Then why did he come? Looking for more money? No. For adventure? No. Oh, how could he explain that his heart was crying out after the earth and after the flowers and after the animals he had left but he wanted to be free — free from the stifling atmosphere of those people, free from being called stupid, free from loneliness — the police officer got tired of him and yawningly he waved him away. Lukas was transferred from one camp to another and another, learned how to register with the various church agencies engaged in immigration services, how to answer their questions, how to tell about his Reformed religious background. This was the most difficult. He hadn’t been inside the church since his baptism, maybe. There was no religion at home — out of conviction or out of fear, he really didn’t know. When it came to religious instruction in school, Lukas’ mother didn’t sign the application, so he never went. Now he was told by the other fellows that he should say he was Reformed; only then would they take him. So he said it. It was hard. He knew it was a lie and he had never lied. Lukas looked at Little Joe. He sensed there was some change: the boy was not in coma anymore, he was sleeping. Lukas went hack to his memories. The flight to America was exciting. The food, the courtesy, ‘Do you want a pillow?... A cup of coffee?’ Are they all so nice in America? Or in the church? Lukas didn’t know whom to give credit. In New York he was handed over to a minister. The man spoke Hungarian and told Lukas they would go to a suburb on the Jersey side where he would get a room and a job. “You are free, nobody tells you what you must do. I can give you some advice but I don’t give you orders.” — He also told him he was welcome in the church but that wasn’t compulsory either. The church wanted to help, that was all. “One more question, personal one. How did you get this rare name, Lukács?” “My mother told me once she dreamt I would become a great physician and there was some doctor she once read about and who was called Lukács.” “Of course,” the minister said, “Lukács, the companion of St. Paul who wrote the Gospel and the Book of Acts.” Lukas didn’t know what the man was talking about. “Do you want to be a doctor?” “Could I?” “Well, you can. But I see from your papers you have only eight years of schools. First you must go through high school.” Lukas looked at Little Joe: “Oh, if I would be a great doctor now I could surely make you well. I want to learn. Wait for it, Little Joe, wait for me!” It was a cry from the depth of his heart. He heard himself saying it. Right away he realized the foolishness of it. Little Joe cannot wait. He must be saved now. Little Joe did not stir, he slept calmly. Lukas’ thoughts flashed fast. The minister took him to his new quarters, to a room shared with another newcomer. His job was at a supermarket carrying cases of vegetables. The boss liked him because Lukas knew how to clean the vegetables, peal the rotten leaves and freshen them up on the counter. But Lukas was lonely. His roommate went out a lot. First he asked Lukas to join him. It didn’t work out. Lukas didn’t like to drink. One beer was enough. He tried to make conversation with the girls in their company; there were some
