6. LOVE OF COMFORT

I wanted to have my father to myself, like most little girls do - when I got my wish, though, it gave me a fright that lasted nearly all my life. Our relationship was very close; Martin’s nightly tales of his “adventures” of the war years, in the forced labor camps and during his escape, were supposed to help my sleep. They emphasized his intelligence, and by extension, mine too. Photo15 He taught me to read at the age of four and books became a shared pleasure. As for my mother Edith, she really wasn’t at our level, was she? Not even really necessary, or so it seemed.

After their earlier separation, Martin and Edith were back together again, in the tiny apartment in Budapest: one room for them, which also doubled as the living room when the folding couch was closed and another for me, with a small table that we also used during meal times. Simple dishes were prepared in a minuscule kitchenette but the real luxury was found in the bathroom, where hot water actually came directly from the taps, piped in from the hot springs across the Danube on the Island of Margarita. Only three times a week, of course, but that was enough for baths and even laundry, done by hand in the same tub. Most people in Hungary were not so lucky at that time and had to heat water on the stove when it was needed. Since both Martin and Edith were working, they could afford the rent on these two rooms, split off from a larger apartment once owned by a rich family who had escaped to the West when the Communists took over.

Then Edith had a stroke, at only 35 years of age, and was hospitalized for a long period. At first I was sent to stay with relatives, my mother’s sister Magda with a daughter almost the same age, around three. Photo16 My cousin had her own room, which I wasn’t allowed to share. Aunt Magda said “Judith needs all her space…” So a cot was set up each night for me in their dining room, squeezed in between the large table with 8 chairs and the wall where a fancy painting hung. Nightmares disturbed me every night, with the “monster” from the picture descending upon me as soon as I fell asleep, to eat me all up! Could this be the reason for my lifelong insomnia and light sleep: always with an ear cocked for the monster’s return?

Magda complained of my bad behavior when Martin arrived on the weekend: “She never listens to what I say, so stubborn.“ The fight was about some headcheese served at lunch, which I had insisted was not cheese at all. Martin defended me and then, after an angry discussion in which he lost his temper as usual, had to take me back home to stay. A woman was found to take care of me and the apartment until Edith could return, but the carer made so many mistakes. Once we had 4 eggs in the larder, meant to last for the suppers of the entire week, but the woman used them all up in one dish. Life was hard, and without Edith’s earnings we had trouble buying enough food to stave off hunger. Luckily there was no possibility of comparison with life in other countries, no television yet, just the foreign broadcasts of Radio Free Europe, which Martin listened to every night, even if it was illegal.

Finally Edith recovered, but she never returned to full health. Her powers of balance had been permanently impaired and she couldn’t walk on her own, only by leaning on someone. An invalid for the rest of her life, confined mainly to her home, she carried on the chores much better than the carer had done and at least she didn’t have to be paid. I still didn’t appreciate her much but now at least I had learned that my mother was necessary after all. Thus I could get on with reading and studying Photo17, never having to worry about housework. Cooking was never something to be discussed, just gotten out of the way so that the more important things in life could continue. This attitude remained as I grew up and even now, to the amazement of my friends, household things don’t interest me at all. That was my mother’s department, after all.