The Eighth Tribe, 1979 (6. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1979-02-01 / 2. szám
Page 4 THE EIGHTH TRIBE February, 1979 JOHN SARKETT Thoughts of a third generation son on visiting . . . Hungary Exclusive to the Eighth Tribe “It was nice of you not to forget.” The young woman in the ticket office at the Budapest Opera was making a joke. She knew I was an American of Hungarian ancestry. And she knew that my Hungarian was rudimentary at best. But still she said it was nice of me not to forget the language, as though by some strange genetic osmosis I was able to speak without having been properly instructed. Or that, like an apostle, I had a miraculous gift of tongues, in this case, the Hungarian tongue. Clearly, it was not true. Especially when you consider that even her joke had to be translated for my understanding. But even if her clever irony was not precisely true, perhaps I had ‘not forgotten’ other features of Hungary, even though I had never been there before. Typical American youngster My wife Bonnie and I visited Hungary for two weeks in October, 1978. As a child, like most thirdgeneration children, I was nonplussed about my ethnic heritage. It did not seem particularly special in any way, not to thee typical American youngster that I was, whose fondest dream was to emulate the success of Rocky Colavito, slugging star for the Cleveland Indians. But I got older. I went to the university. Faced with a typical humanities requirement, I opted for the standarl survey course of classical music. Then something happened. I became deeply interested, especially in the music of Bartók. I studied the Mikrokosmos at the keyboard. And 1 realized, through this music, a little bit about what it means to be Hungarian. That served to whet my appetite. I became curious about my grandparents, and their parents, and what sort of people these were. I had known three of my grandparents, each of whom was Hungarian, but I knew them only as elderly people who spoke a supremely unintelligible language, and had somewhat strange ways. But with the benefit of a little age, I realized they were people. Interesting people. My one grandfather taught himself to play the violin and played in an orchestra- My other grandfather (magyar name szarka from which the angelicized Sarkett comes) was a top-notch salesman and impressive public speaker. And now I see them, and my grandmothers, as the pioneers^ they really were. I started clipping articles about Hungary from newspapers and magazines. My aunt, noticing my interest, rewarded me with a history book of Hungary, in English, which had been presented to my grandfather at a national convention of American- Hungarian insurance salesmen. Upon finishing this volume, I moved on to the next challenge, to learn the language. I located a textbook, and finished 12 of the 30 lessons in four months. Then we went to Hungary. When you arc there I bad seen many photographs of Hungary, and they had conveyed, within the limitations of the form, the beauty of the land, its monuments and its people. But what they were unable to convey was the sense of drama so evident there, the sense of history made and the history yet to be made. Very difficult to set down on a piece of photographic paper, but very difficult to miss when you are actually there. When you are actually in Budapest. At the Zeneakadémia, where Bartók taught and composed. At the National Museum, where the royal regalia sits. At the Heroes Sqare, where the millenium monument provides a history of Hungary in metal and stone. When you are actually in Esztergom, Balaton, Mohács, Kalocsa. Eger, Tokaj and the hundreds of tiny villages in between. When you are on the great puszta, the Hortobágy Plain. I had hoped the people would be friendly. But I did not expect a just-made Hungarian acquaintance to hand us a just-purchased book on the Castle Museum after hosting us on a tour of its contents. Nor did I expect to be presented with a magnificent volume of Csontvárv works at the end of a visit at the home of a friend of a friend. Nor did I expect our host in the tiny town of Siklós to present us with grapes from bis garden and a single rose for my wife. Nor did I expect our hosts in Kőszeg to pile in the car and lead the way — all 25 or so miles — to Szombathely when all we were asking was directions to the road to Szombathely. Nor did I expect our cab driver in Budapest, upon learning we were on our way to Váci Utca to buy a city map, to slop the cab, run in to a bookstore we happened to pass, and buy one for us. And like every Hungarian, he became affectedly indignant when we tried to pay for it. But perhaps there arc other ways to repay this hospitality, genuine hospitality, that we met at every turn.
