Five Poems by Margaret Duda

Fostering to Freedom  

For the first four months

of her life, my mother,

the product of a love affair

between a Budapest governess

and a Czech policeman who

never told her he was married,

languished in an orphanage

until one day…

 

Roza, dark hair pulled into a bun,

dressed like a simple country woman,

set out on her yearly pilgrimage

to the large Catholic orphanage

after visiting her sister in Budapest.

She slipped into a grey-walled

room filled with white metal cribs

and numerous sleeping children,

each protected by a wooden cross

hanging above their bed.

 

Roza and Jozsef had already taken

in two boys and a girl, all between

two and five. They were theirs now,

children she could not conceive,

but souls she could foster with love.

Clothed in a black habit, an old nun

entered the room, smiled at Roza,

then pointed to a four-month-old,

their newest arrival. Roza insisted

Jozsef said they could take no more.

The nun informed her the baby,

my mother, could only be fostered

because my grandmother bore her

out of wedlock, then escaped

to America, promising to send

for the child as soon as she could.  

 

Roza approached the iron crib

with metal bars like a prison,

as my mother gazed up at her,

then raised her tiny arms, as if

begging to be released and held.

Leaning over the bed, Roza drew

her close.  Nestled in her arms,

the infant smiled and sighed.

Roza recognized a gift from God

and hoped Jozsef would understand.

 

As the aging, decrepit train

rattled and chugged its way

across the Great Hungarian Plain,

Roza rubbed the infant’s back

and softly hummed a lullaby.

 

In the village, the child became known

for her intelligence and loving ways.

Roza prayed her real mother would

forget her promise, but seventeen

years later, a ticket arrived to ship

Mama, now called Margit, to America.

 

Margit cried constantly, unwilling

to leave the only mother she knew.

Her heart breaking, Roza reinforced

her fledgling’s natural instinct

to fly off and fulfil her potential,

convincing her that great prospects

awaited her, as ever generous Roza

shared her gift with the future.




Gifts From a Stranger


My daughter’s two-year-old squirming body

felt heavy in my arms as I wove my way toward

the wooden rocker beneath the trees.  I took the seat,

rocking her back to sleep as my cousin’s wedding

music continued to play.  Having the reception

outdoors was perfect for those of us with toddlers.

 

I searched for our five-year-old twin sons

and their younger brother and found them

in the mass of pre-schoolers chasing

one another among two hundred guests.

My husband waved from a group of men,

leaving me wishing I also had someone 

to engage in stimulating conversation.

 

An older man approached me and asked if he

could take the seat next to me.  “I am Geza,”

he offered.  I smiled.  “Margaret.  Andrew was

my father.”  “I figured,” he said. “You remind

me of Katalin, his mother.”  So Papa was right.

I did resemble his mother.  I missed him so.

 

Paul, who recently turned four, ran by chasing

a small dog.  “He’s one of yours, isn’t he?”  Geza

asked.  I was astonished.  “How did you know?”

“He looks just like your father at that age.  I come

from the same Hungarian village.  We were best friends.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.  We had much to discuss.

I had never seen any photographs of Papa as a child.

Losing Everyone She Loved

 

She stared out the door at Janos waiting

in the cart to take her youngest son

to the train to join her oldest in America.

Wrinkles, like deep gullies, lined her face

with age, though she was barely fifty.

 

Grasping her rosary, she drew a shawl

over her black dress and babushka.

Istvan’s death in a mill fire in America

six years ago dressed her in the black

she’d wear the rest of her life.

 

She was slowly losing them all. Eva and Anna,

three and one, died coughing in misery

in the influenza pandemic of ’89 when

strong herbs could no longer lower fevers,

open throats. They passed, having barely lived.

 

She screamed over and over, pounding her heart

as they lowered a single casket holding both girls.

She cried until she was pregnant again with Gyuri,

their first son, who joined Istvan on his last trip

to the dragon belching flames from its stacks.

 

Istvan made five one-year trips to America

leaving her happily pregnant on four.

Mari and Janos followed Gyuri, the first.

Then came Erzsi followed by Andras, the last,

resembling Istvan, morphing into her favourite.

 

Now he, too, prepared to leave her to avoid

the Romanian draft of young Hungarian men.

His wife would follow soon after giving birth.

He could give his life for Hungary, but never

for Romania, given their region as spoils of war.

 

Andras approached her carrying a satchel stuffed

with clothes, his passport, and the steerage ticket

costing thirty dollars, bought and sent by Gyuri.

She slipped a black wooden cross with a brass Jesus

off the wall and shoved it into his bulging satchel.

 

Promising to return as soon as he could, Andras

wrapped his long arms around her short stature.

She held him for a final time.  The flu stole her babies.

Then Gyuri joined Istvan and stayed after he died.

Mari rejoined her husband in Canada. Now Andras.

 

“I’ll never see you boys again,” she insisted,

reading the future like a Roma fortune teller.

Andras wiped his eyes.  “Erszi will care for you,

Janos will tend the land.  Gyuri and I will write

and send photos and money until we return.”

 

She only shook her head as if she had read

Gypsy tarot cards and saw the Depression,

the ravages of World War ll, the Iron Curtain,

and even her own death.  She had to find the

strength she had used to raise her children alone.

 

“Andras!” Janos shouted from the cart,

“You will miss the train to your ship.”

She tried not to let him go but go he must.

He left my grandmother memorizing his image

as she said her rosary, soliciting his safekeeping.

 

 

On the Wall Forever

 

We are all there, four generations

grasping the iron railing of the tour ship

as my parents had on the steamships

that brought them to New York Harbor

as Hungarian immigrants in the twenties.

 

We gasp at the oxidized green statue

of Libertas, Roman Goddess of Freedom,

twenty-two stories high, gift from France

for our alliance in the Revolution, holding

the torch of freedom, now covered in gold,

and the book of Law dated July 4, 1776.

 

Due to Covid, we cannot climb 393 steps

into the crown, but still admire the face

that Bartholdi modelled after his mother.

I remember the first time my parents

brought me to see her when I was only

eight and they explained how they cried

at the first sight of her guarding the harbour

and the freedoms they sought and found.

 

All seem so young this misty morning. 

Mama has no grey hair, Papa no arthritic limp.

Larry and I are still thin and dark-haired

and our four children, the neurologist, fine art

photographer, businessman, and paediatrician

all look as they did in their thirties.  But our

seven grandchildren—the lawyer, the dentist,

the writer, the engineer, the cognitive scientist,

the marine biologist, and medical researcher,

all look as they do today, healthy and hopeful.

 

The boat Larry hired for a private tour before

other tourists arrive, stops and Mama brings

out the walnut, apricot and lekvar kolache

she made and passes them around as Papa

fills wine glasses with his latest vintage.

We toast the Lady and the couple who left

their rural villages where they were only

allowed six years of schooling, and came

to America to give their descendants

the chances they never had.

 

Larry and I bring out our own contribution,

a Hungarian band who had been hiding inside.

We tell Mama and Papa it is time to dance

the csardas.  They beam and dance as Papa

swings Mama around, her feet and dress flying.

Then Papa asks me to dance and Mama asks

Larry, refusing to listen to his objections as

she patiently teaches him the simple steps.

The younger ones watch and try it themselves,

and soon everyone is twirling to the folk tune.

My photographer son records it all.

 

Forced to move on, the boat docks at Ellis Island.

The younger ones tell my parents to debark first,

letting them explain how they had to pass medical

exams and answer questions in the Registry Room,

now part of the National Museum of Immigration,

we promise to let them explore as soon as it opens.

 

We move to a certain area with a curved wall

of panels with thousands of names.  Still early,

we are the only visitors at this hour.  I ask

my parents to find their names on the panels

along the Immigrant Wall of Honor.  They look

shocked, but with the help of their descendants,

finally find their names and country of origin. 

Papa cries with joy, and Mama kisses me.  Ever

the practical one, she asks my photographer son

to take a photo to remember.  As he does every

Christmas, he finds a place to set his camera,

arranges the family, sets the self timer, and steps

into the group as we smile and wait.  I hear the click

of the camera as my alarm goes off and I wake up,

still smiling..

 

 

Amber Alert in Oswego County

 

Oswego evolved from the Iroquois word

OSHWEGA, meaning “pouring out place,”

referring to the mouth of the Oswego River,

which flows into huge Lake Ontario.

 

Oswego county was mainly farm country

where couples raised cows, crops, and children

who helped them fight one hundred fourteen

inches of dreaded snow and ice every winter.

 

In the midst of World War 11, the large

farming families planted Victory Gardens,

recruited extra boys to help work the farms

and gathered to picnic on the Fourth of July.

 

In 1944, my uncle, aunt, and six children

arrived with food and equipment for baseball,

as Papa cooked outside, Mama inside, sure

my cousins would watch me as she had directed.

 

Finally, she called everyone to get their food,

but found I was not with my older cousins.

They said folks miles away in Black River

could hear her shrieks of agony and loss.

 

The box phones on wallpapered kitchen walls

rang incessantly throughout Oswego county

as news spread of the missing three-year-old

at the Hungarian’s farm. Police were called.

 

Celebrations stopped. Carloads of volunteers

filled our yard and lined both sides of route 2.

Neighbours we didn’t know swarmed the fields

calling “Mancika,” “Mancika,” over and over.

 

They searched both fields and wooded areas.  

Time passed. Light dimmed. People panicked.  

Someone mentioned our stream, a tributary

of the Oswego River. Mama screamed again.

 

The volunteers, some with hunting dogs,

pushed toward the stream behind the barn.

They slid down a steep embankment to the bed,

flanked by muddy banks and willow trees.

 

They never knew who saw me first,

Tippy by my side, sitting on the bank

making mud pies in an old cupcake tin,

imitating Mama.  Alerted, Tippy barked.

 

Mama ran toward me, and gathered me up,

hugging and kissing me as my muddy hands

encircled her neck.  Papa joined us as tears of joy

poured out of their eyes and down their cheeks.

 

My parents insisted on everyone staying

to dance, eat, and drink wine that Papa made.

A few drove home to bring contributions

to the feast and their instruments to play.

                        

The harsh winters drove us from Oswego county,

but my cousin says they still talk about the child

who spoke no English and never understood

why just seeing her made everyone so happy.

 

Margaret Duda is a poet, short story writer, and has had five non-fiction books published. She is currently finishing a novel and has a book of poetry entitled "I Come From Immigrants" scheduled for publication in the spring by Kelsay Press.  Her poems have been published in Lothlorien, Muddy River Review, Verse-Virtual, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Silver Birch Press, and numerous anthologies.